He paused at the door, hand on the frame. "Stay safe, Connor. And don't do anything I'd do."
Then he was gone.
And I was left alone with my thoughts.
Of which there were many.
6
MILA
By the time evening settled over Paris, I could feel the decision I’d made sitting under my skin like a live wire.
I’d told myself I’d only agreed to the gallery opening because it was what people in residencies did. Because the group chat had lit up with the kind of casual enthusiasm that made you look flaky if you didn’t show. Because Élodie believed in momentum, and I was trying—desperately—not to fall back into the habits that had made my life feel so small back home.
All true.
And also not.
I dressed as if Connor Ward might be there.
That was the part I didn’t say out loud, even to myself. I pretended it was just practicality—black trousers, a fitted sweater, a coat with enough structure to make me feel like I belonged to the city instead of borrowing it. Boots I could walk in. Earrings small enough not to signal trying.
But I brushed my hair until it fell the way it always did—too soft, too willing. I let it stay down.
I wanted to be seen. Not by the room.
By him.
The thought made my stomach dip, and I hated myself a little for the honesty of it. I wasn’t a girl who chased men. I didn’t build fantasies out of strangers’ eyes.
Except, I had been building this one for days.
And Paris had a way of making delusion feel like destiny.
My phone buzzed as I was pulling on my scarf.
Amaya Delgado:We meet outside the studio. 19h45. Don’t be late, américaine.
I snorted. A week ago I would’ve bristled at the teasing. Tonight, it grounded me. It reminded me I was not the main character in some cinematic spiral. I was a woman with a residency badge and a half-formed artist statement, trying to make friends in a language that still tripped me up.
I typed back:Je ne suis pas late. I am punctual.
A second later:
Amaya:That sentence is a crime.
I laughed, grabbed my camera—because I never felt fully dressed without it—and stepped into the stairwell.
Four flights down. The familiar burn in my thighs. My breath quickening. My body making itself known to me in that honest way Paris insisted on.
Outside, the street smelled like rain and exhaust and something sweet drifting from a bakery down the block. The sky was the color of wet slate. Streetlights had begun to blink on, softening the edges of everything.
I walked faster than necessary, and I knew why.
Not because I was late.
Because part of me couldn’t shake the irrational hope that he’d appear the way he always had—at the periphery, just out of reach, rearranging the air without touching it.
