Tonight, Saigon rests under a silvery, glowing moon.

Wisps of clouds drift lazily past the window; the hum of traffic still echoes through the street below.

I sit by a cup of cold coffee, checking the time in London. It’s 3:12 PM.

On the other side of the world, the sky is probably a pale gray, a drizzle falling softly, and people hurrying past one another.

I don’t know why I want to know these things.

Maybe because I’ve grown used to imagining where you live, a narrow street, damp stone steps, the wind whispering through a windowpane, and your face.

Your eyes, I wonder, which season do they belong to?

Are they the warmth of spring, the fire of summer, the softness of autumn, or the quiet ache of winter?

Maybe it’s because, in a small corner of my heart, I believe this sky is the only thing we truly share.

Strange, isn’t it?

Among billions of people, we may never meet.

Yet as long as I look up, I know I’m gazing at the same thing you might be looking at, that same sky.

Sometimes it’s blue, sometimes it’s cold, sometimes so clouded you can’t see the light, but it’s always there.

Just like the way I think of you.

Not dazzling, not loud, just... there.

I used to think loving someone so far away was ridiculous.

But maybe what’s more ridiculous is that I can’t stop myself from dreaming about you.

Every night, I picture you stepping off the Tube, pulling your coat tighter, your eyes scanning the crowd as if you’re looking for something.

And I, half a world away, feel my heart ache for someone who will probably never know I exist.

Once again, I look up at the moonlight.

I think of Romeo and Juliet, the play you once performed, the one I tried so hard to find but never could.

I still remember Romeo’s vow beneath that silver moon.

And I wonder... when you looked up at the sky that night, did the moonlight look the same as the one I’m seeing now?

But I’m not sad.

Because I know we are still living under the same sky.

And sometimes, that alone is enough to make me smile.