He stood near the door, rain darkening the shoulders of his coat, his presence at odds with the careful chaos of the café. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t scan the room like a tourist. He moved like someone who knew where he was and why he was there, even if the rest of us didn’t.
Our eyes didn’t meet. Not then. But something tightened, anyway, a subtle awareness threading through me, impossible to ignore.
I told myself it was curiosity. That it meant nothing.
When I left a few minutes later, the rain had thinned to a mist. I walked faster than necessary, my pulse unsteady, my thoughts skidding.
I laughed at myself under my breath. Paris did this to people. Made everything feel charged, meaningful, cinematic.
That night, in my apartment, I edited photos until my eyes burned.
I lingered on an image I didn’t remember taking—a blurred figure reflected in a shop window, indistinct but compelling. I stared at it longer than I should have, my finger hovering over the delete key before I saved it instead.
I slept restlessly, dreams folding in on themselves, full of corridors and half-open doors.
Days passed. I worked. I wandered. I settled into a rhythm.
The residency director checked in occasionally, her questions gentle, her expectations light. “You seem at home here,” she said once, and something in her tone made me believe she meant it as a compliment.
I told myself I was safe. That this was what I’d come for. Space. Quiet. The chance to listen to my own voice without the static of who I was supposed to be.
It was easy to forget that cities like Paris had layers. That beauty didn’t negate danger—it disguised it.
The second time I saw him, it was night.
I’d stayed late at the studio, chasing a particular quality of light that only existed in my mind. When I stepped outside, the street was slick and gleaming, neon reflected in puddles like something living. I adjusted my scarf and started walking, the camera heavy against my hip.
I sensed him before I heard footsteps.
This time, our eyes met.
It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning, no music swelling in the background. Just a moment of recognition that felt oddly like impact.
His gaze lingered—not invasive, not polite. Assessing. Intent.
His attention didn’t skim the way others’ did. It stayed. Tracked the line of my throat, the fall of my hair over my collarbone, the way my mouth softened when I forgot to guard it. I was used to being glanced at, occasionally admired. This felt different. Like being studied for structure instead of surface.
I didn’t look away. That surprised me, too.
He was older than most of the men who’d looked at me back home. Not by much, but enough that it mattered. His face was marked in a way that spoke of use, not age. A life lived with consequence. His mouth was unsmiling, his attention absolute.
Something in me responded, low and unsteady.
He didn’t speak. Neither did I.
He stepped aside as I passed, giving me space without breaking eye contact, and I hated myself a little for the way my skin prickled at the courtesy of it. For the way my body cataloged him, anyway—the breadth of his shoulders, the controlled economy of his movement, the faint scent of rain and something darker.
I walked on, my heart loud in my ears.
I told myself it meant nothing. That I was projecting. That Paris was a city of near-misses and imagined connections.
Still, when I reached my apartment, I locked the door with more care than usual. I leaned back against it, breathing in, grounding myself in the familiar. The scrape of the floor beneath my feet. The hum of the city outside. The reality of my own body.
I lifted the camera and took a photograph of the door—closed, unyielding. I didn’t know why. Only that it felt necessary.
Over the next week, he appeared like a pattern I hadn’t yet learned to read. Never close enough to demand explanation. Always just at the edge of my awareness.
Across the street. In the periphery of a gallery opening. Once, reflected in the darkened glass of a shop window as I adjusted my lens.
