Three young women walked together down a sunlit alley, their sandals clicking lightly on old stone. They moved like petals in a breeze—Quỳnh, tall and teasing; Lan, with dimples and a voice like chimes; and My, the quiet one who always laughed the loudest when she finally did.
The afternoon light fell golden across their shoulders, catching strands of black hair and the curve of a white áo dài sleeve. A vendor called out about fresh guavas, and Quỳnh waved him off with mock drama—“Chúng em đẹp sẵn rồi, khỏi ăn!”
We’re pretty enough without it!
They burst into laughter, loud and free, echoing through the alley.
Lan twirled her straw hat in one hand. My wiped tears from her eyes between giggles. The kind of laughing that needed no reason, no permission—just sun, youth, and sisterhood.
A group of tourists glanced at them—smiling, curious—but the girls didn’t care. They were inside their own story, one made of summer break, coconut ice cream, and silly inside jokes from high school.
They stopped at a corner café, ordered three sâm dứa sodas, and kept laughing, even when the drinks arrived. My pointed at a boy across the street who turned red at her glance. More laughter.
It was just another day.
But later, years from now, maybe they’d remember this one:
the sunshine, the silly jokes,
and how beautiful it felt
to laugh with your girls
under a Hội An sky.