When I think of a kitchen, a wave of calm washes over me. Like right now—throat scratchy, feverish, my husband on the other side of the country—when loneliness creeps in and pushes me to flip open my laptop, watch a movie, or type a few lines, the kitchen’s where I wander to find some peace.

Put simply, when my husband asked if I’d eaten dinner, it hit me: since getting home, exhausted and crashing into a nap, I hadn’t. After chatting with him, I shuffled to the kitchen and heated up a bowl of soup—really just leftovers from lunch I’d stashed in the fridge for later. Warmed it up, sipped it down to the last drop. Sweat broke out, my throat eased up, and here I am, writing this.

And then, out of nowhere, a photo popped up on my Facebook—a hearty meal from a friend in Hà Nội. Thinking of her brings me straight to her little honey-colored kitchen, so warm and snug. It’s small and narrow, but stepping inside feels like I’ve wandered into a kitchen from some old fairy tale. It’s the wooden tones, the cups, the way she hangs racks and organizes shelves, or that little toaster oven.

She’s got a tiny garden on the balcony of her slice of an old French villa, squeezed into Trần Quốc Toản street. She’s arranged her place just right. The living room stays a living room, the dining area feels separate, even though both fit into a space barely over 30 square meters. I miss that warm, sweet glow from the lamps, weaving through books on the shelves, or glinting off the ceramic plates hung on the walls. It wraps around me gently, like I could stay forever, curl up on that soft sofa, drift into a deep sleep, and then dive back into my hectic life.

Back then, my energy tank would fill right up.

Oh, her balcony—draped with orchids and flowers I can’t name. From that cozy sofa, sipping tea, you can look straight out at it. See the light twinkling through fresh green leaves. A cool, soothing patch of green.

Or on a lazy weekend, sprawling on the couch, flipping through the stacks of books lining the walls, savoring her homemade tea and pastries. Pure bliss.

Or maybe standing at the foot of the little attic stairs, where a table’s cluttered with perfume bottles she’s collected from who-knows-where. Sweet scents, bursting with fruity vibes, fueling every morning’s rush to work.

And she’s got this wild little boy. Cheeks so chubby and pinchable you could melt. When he messes up and looks up with those innocent, guilt-free eyes, no wonder his preschool teachers throw in the towel.

His name’s a tough one: Spiky Hedgehog.

Truth is, none of this has actually happened. Except for the image of that kitchen and the bits of her home.

That’s it. But I miss it so much.