Around three, I left the studio and walked toward the river because my brain needed air and movement, and because if I stayed inside any longer, I would start imagining Connor’s voice saying my name again.
The streets were damp from last night’s rain. Paris looked polished in the aftermath, stone darkened, the sky pale. I practiced French in my head as I walked, rehearsing phrases I always fumbled.
Je voudrais …
Je cherche …
Excusez-moi …
I passed a boulangerie and decided impulsively that I would buy something I hadn’t tried yet. That I would speak French and not apologize for it.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled like butter and sugar. A woman behind the counter smiled.
“Bonjour,” she said.
“Bonjour,” I replied, heart thudding.
She rattled off a greeting that included words I didn’t know. I panicked and went with what I did know.
“Je voudrais … un … eclair?” I said, and immediately felt ridiculous because the word came out like I was choking on it.
The woman’s smile widened. “Au chocolat?”
“Yes—oui. Au chocolat.”
She turned, grabbed one with tongs, placed it on a tray. “Autre chose?”
I hesitated. My brain stalled. I wanted to say no, but I forgot the easiest word in the language.
“Non,” I blurted, then immediately added, “merci,” as if to make it less abrupt.
The woman nodded and told me the price. I heard a number. I did not understand the number.
I handed her a twenty.
She looked at it, then at me, then said something that sounded like a question.
I froze.
A man behind me cleared his throat. I turned, flustered. He was older, wearing a wool coat, eyes kind.
“She’s asking if you have smaller,” he said in English.
“Oh,” I said, mortified. “No. I’m sorry.”
He smiled slightly. “She can make change.”
The woman slid the eclair into a small bag and handed me my change, her expression still amused, not annoyed.
“Merci,” I said again, more quietly this time.
“Bonne journée,” she replied.
Outside, I exhaled like I’d survived something.
I walked with the pastry in my hand, feeling absurdly proud and equally embarrassed. It was a strange combination I’d been living in since arriving—confidence and humiliation braided together like they belonged.
Studying abroad, I realized, was just repeatedly proving to yourself that you could endure small failures without fleeing.
