Jean was a puzzle to me since the day we first met.

She is effortlessly beautiful and never lingers for longer than a second about the way she looks. She’d always wear black. In her book, there are blacks, lighter blacks and darker blacks. No matter how much she tries, her loosest clothes can’t stop highlighting her curves. So she just embraces them. The first time my brother saw her; she was trimming her toenails, wearing all black and a big hair-bun. Yet, he couldn’t help but saying: “Gosh, you are so beautiful.” She awkwardly shooed him away.

She is selectively shy, the definition of introverted. I remember categorizing her as “cold-hearted” after our first conversation. One time, in a middle of a dinner party, I found Jean sitting alone in the far corner of the room, concentrating on her fork and knife. She hated small talks, and found it absolutely okay to not communicate to anyone if she didn’t feel like it.

She is brutally honest. People often mistake her bluntness for humor (which she has plenty of), but she’s just really that straightforward. The work she does involves a lot of bullshit-ism and diplomacy, but she never gives in for work politics. She treats all bosses with sass, but greets the cleaning lady and security guard with the biggest smile. She sees people’s character right through their façade, never blinded by the shine.

Jean and I lived together for months. We clashed on most things. She likes alternative, rock, layered music. I murmured to bright, melodic, soft tunes. She has the minimalist-est of style (no chair, no table, no bed sheet, self-built bookshelf). I took hours decorating one corner of the room with pictures and flowers and candles. She drinks beer and straight shots of whiskey like there’s no tomorrow. I choked on a little gulp of alcoholic juice.

She always said she hated me and planned on leaving soon. But she endured me the whole time, even though I had the memory capacity of a goldfish. “Linh, did you close the door?” “Linh, why didn’t you turn off the stove?” “Linh, give me back those hangers!”

One time, I forgot my set of keys, frantically searching for them on the verge of crying. Jean didn’t even ask what happened or why. She found the keys before I did, having guessed already that I would have left them on top of the fridge.

Another time, my chronic stomach pain came suddenly out of nowhere. It was at midnight. Jean made me some ginger tea to calm me down. At 5 a.m, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, she drove me to the emergency room. I felt bad because it was a workday. She told me: work can always wait.

She is that friend who would always be there when you need them the most. Not at your highest of highs, but your lowest of lows.

Since then, we had ceased living together. I moved to a different city. But we’d always make a point to meet and see each other whenever we’re in the same town. I told her: “If I only have a few days, I’d rather spend them with people who matter.” She smirked: “Right. Who else can endure you but me?”

The last time I saw her, it had been a rough day for me. I had been running all night long taking care of a friend in an emergency room. At 12 a.m., I told Jean to sleep because it was going to be a long night.

I came home at 2 a.m to a warm mug of tea, Jean was still waiting to open the door. After 20 minutes of me complaining about the incredible injustice of public health system in Vietnam, Jean told me to go shower away the stress.

When I came out, Jean brought me a card that she had spent the whole evening working on at her calligraphy class.

In characteristically slender handwriting, the card says: “Heart made of gold”.

It’d brightened up my day then and ever since.