To the man whom I love though I don’t know your name or your face or your identity, I am such a fool to love you like this. Yes, you didn’t read it wrong, I love you, not “like” or “crush”. At first it was not you, it was Slay. Then there were more TikTok clips about you and I heard your name from your few but loyal fans. And I became one. I thought and watched about you day and night, day and night. My heart started beating so fast when I saw your little kicks as you read the love letter of a Laotian soldier to a girl from our beloved country, the way you walked, and when you called Môi Xinh to move back. It was such a cute voice; you sounded very young, younger than the age that was supposed to be for a Junior Lieutenant. I should remind you one more time: that I love you. Now I'm seeing pictures of you smiling on my laptop screen. So many times I poked and touched your puffy cheeks through the screen, through your mask. Every night I watched your clips before going to bed–it was a form of meditation. When your body moved close to the screen, in my mind there were rolls after rolls of scenes of me hugging you, being embraced in your arms, and smelling the scent of your sweat after a hard day of training. I sounded like a harassing jerk, I know, but my love had been so full my heart could not contain it anymore; so it flowed out and covered the whole of my body, my very body being, that I love you. I wanted to share all of the moments with you–oh, how happy and fulfilled it will be, to talk and share with you, and I will call you “bò sữa BV đáng iu nhất thế giới”, for you’re not only handsome but look like a sweet teddy bear. It would be very cozy to be shielded in your arms, feeling your rigid chest in the icy, stormy winter. Recently, I have been accepted to work part-time at a coffee shop. I am trained to bake, and I have never done such things before. I was born with a clumsy hand and a slow brain. So I made an ugly-shaped donut, and I broke a bánh mì into bits when I cut it. And of course, I was yelled at by Mrs. Boss. How would she and Mr. Boss talk about me tonight when they’re at home? I don’t know. Would they laugh at me? Would they be so angry that they plan to fire me the next morning? I don’t know. But my heart’s so bitter. I do not deserve you. I am nothing. You’re the essence of our humankind. No, I do not deserve you at all. But my mind doesn't listen, my heart doesn't listen. Oh, my dear, please tell me, what should I do with you? I am mourning over my broken pieces of heart.