That's my girl. Now go eat something fancy and send me pictures.
I buy cheese and bread from a fromagerie where the owner explains each variety in passionate detail I mostly don't understand. I take it back to my hotel balcony and eat while watching the sun set over the rooftops, turning everything pink and gold.
My phone buzzes. Dylan:How's Paris treating you?
I send him a photo of my cheese plate and the view.Like a queen.
Are you happy?
I definitely am.
And it's true. Sitting alone on a balcony in Paris, eating cheese I can't pronounce, I'm actually happy. Not fine. Not managing.Happy.
The Eiffel Tower happens on day two. I take the metro, which feels like a small victory in itself after studying the map for twenty minutes. The train is crowded, and I'm pressed against strangers who smell like coffee and cigarettes and expensive perfume. Nobody makes eye contact. It's weirdly comforting.
When I emerge at Trocadéro and see the Tower across the plaza, my breath catches. I've seen it in photos a thousand times, but the reality is different. Bigger. More impossible. More beautiful.
This was supposed to be my honeymoon. Oliver and I had reservations at a restaurant on the second level. I'd imagined us kissing at sunset, the city spread below us, perfect and romantic.
I wait for the sadness to hit. Wait for that familiar ache of loss.
Instead, I feel triumphant. I'm taking this back. This moment, this city, this experience. It's mine now. Not ours.Mine.
I walk closer, neck craning to take in the iron latticework. Tourists crowd around me, taking selfies and arguing about which line is shorter. I don't take any photos. I just stand there, letting it be real.
A woman asks in broken English if I'll take a picture of her with her husband. They're older, maybe in their seventies, holding hands like teenagers. After I snap the photo, she asks, "You want one? With your boyfriend?"
"I'm alone," I say, and the words don't hurt.
"Ah." She nods knowingly. "The best way to see Paris. Alone first, then you bring someone worthy."
I think about Dylan waiting in San Francisco, giving me this space without question. "I might have found someone worthy."
"Then you are lucky." She pats my arm. "Enjoy your freedom. It makes love taste sweeter later."
I spend the rest of the day at the Louvre, which is overwhelming in the best way. The Mona Lisa is smaller than I expected, crowded by tourists holding up phones. But there are other rooms, quieter galleries where I can stand in front of massive paintings and just breathe. Here, surrounded by art that takes up entire walls, I remember what it feels like to be unapologetic.
By day three, I've found my rhythm. Coffee and croissants at my corner café, where the waiter now nods at me in recognition. A few hours of wandering with no destination. Lunch somewhere I've never been. Afternoon sitting in parks or cafés, writing in my journal. Dinner is simple and alone, then evening walks through neighborhoods that grow quieter after dark. I'm sitting at a small café in Le Marais, drinking wine and people-watching, when the realization hits me.
I don't need Dylan or Oliver or anyone at all to feel complete. I'm whole on my own.
But here's the thing that surprises me: I want Dylan anyway.
With Oliver, I'd been dependent. Needing his approval to feel worthy, needing his presence to feel valuable. I'd been half a person trying to complete myself through someone else. Every decision filtered through what he'd think, what he'd want, howhe'd react. But with Dylan, I'm choosing him from a place of wholeness. I'm not giving pieces of myself away. I'm sharing my complete self.
I pull out my journal and write:Being independent doesn't mean being isolated. Being strong doesn't mean refusing help. And loving someone doesn't mean losing yourself—not if they're loving you right.
The words look right on the page. Feel true in my chest.
Day four brings Versailles. The train ride takes forty minutes, and I spend it reading a novel I bought fromShakespeare and Company. The palace is absurdly opulent, almost comical in its excess. I wander through room after room of gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of wealth on display. But the Hall of Mirrors stops me cold.
The long gallery stretches before me, mirrors on one side reflecting windows on the other, creating infinite light and space. I stand in the middle, seeing myself reflected back again and again, and I think about reflection. Oliver reflected back a smaller version of myself. Someone quieter, more manageable, less ambitious.
Every time I looked at his response to me, I saw someone I barely recognized. Dylan reflects back the woman I'm becoming. Someone strong and capable and worthy. When he looks at me, I see myself clearly. The metaphor feels obvious, but sometimes obvious truths are the ones we need most.
I take the train back to Paris feeling lighter, clearer. That evening, I sit by the Seine with my book, watching boats pass and the sun turn the water gold. A street musician plays violin somewhere close, the music drifting over the water. An artist sets up nearby, sketching tourists. A grandmother sits on the bench next to mine, feeding pigeons despite the signs prohibiting it. She catches me watching and smiles.
"You are American?" she asks in heavily accented English.
