Amaya’s voice cut through my thoughts, warm and familiar. I turned to find her standing a few feet away, her dark curls piled messily on her head.
“There you are,” she said, relief softening her features. “You disappeared.”
I smiled, the expression feeling both easy and earned. “I’ve been … busy.”
She studied me in that quiet, perceptive way of hers, eyes flicking briefly to my face, then my posture, then the camera. “You look different.”
I huffed a small laugh. “That obvious?”
“Only if you know what you’re looking for,” she said. “Come on. Coffee?”
We walked toward the small kitchen nook together, the ritual soothing in its predictability. Luc and Henri were already there, deep in an argument about framing that sounded heated until I caught the rhythm of it—affectionate, familiar, safe.
“Morning, Mila,” Luc said, lifting his mug in greeting. His accent wrapped around my name.
“Hey,” I replied, grateful for the way my voice didn’t shake.
Henri glanced up from his sketchbook, eyes flicking briefly to the camera at my hip. “New project?”
“Always,” I said, and meant it in a way I hadn’t before.
As Amaya handed me a mug, our fingers brushed. Her gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second. “How are you? Really?” she asked quietly.
The truth rose up in me—complex and layered and impossible to condense into a single word.
I thought of my apartment, the violated quiet of it. The torn photographs. The way Connor’s anger had flared, protective and immediate, when he saw what had been touched.
“I’m … processing,” I said finally.
She nodded, accepting the answer without pushing. “That’s allowed.”
I leaned against the counter, letting the heat of the mug seep into my palms. Around me, conversation flowed, punctuated by laughter and the clink of porcelain.
I hadn’t realized how deeply I’d come to rely on this place—on the gentle accountability of showing up, on the unspoken permission to be in flux.
Back home, flux had always felt like failure. Like something you were supposed to hurry through quietly, smoothing the edges before anyone noticed. There was pressure to arrive fully formed, to pick a lane and commit to it with conviction, to explain yourself in ways that sounded deliberate even when you weren’t sure yet. In the States, becoming was something you did offstage. You reinvented yourself neatly, retroactively, once you could explain it.
Paris didn’t ask for that.
Here, uncertainty wasn’t treated like a weakness to correct. It was assumed. Expected, even. People shifted identities the way they shifted coats with the weather. Artists were allowed to be mid-thought, mid-transformation, mid-mistake withoutapology. No one demanded a five-year plan or a clean narrative arc. You could be inconsistent. Contradictory. You could arrive one thing and leave another without anyone insisting you justify the evolution.
That permission had loosened something in me I hadn’t known was clenched. It made space for curiosity instead of defense, for desire instead of restraint. For staying with questions instead of rushing toward answers that felt safer but smaller.
When Élodie entered the room, the energy shifted subtly. Not dramatically—just enough to be felt by those paying attention. She moved with her usual economy of motion, her hair sleek, her expression unreadable in a way that made you want to earn her approval even when you told yourself you didn’t care.
“Mila,” she said, stopping near me. Her eyes lingered for a moment, sharp and assessing. “You look … awake.”
The word landed like a bell struck clean.
“I feel that way,” I said.
“Good.” Élodie inclined her head slightly. “I’d like to see what you’re working on later.”
A few weeks ago, the request would have sent a ripple of anxiety through me. Today, it sparked something steadier. Anticipation, rather than fear.
“I’d like that,” I said.
The morning passed in a blur of small tasks and quiet focus. I unpacked my gear, calibrated lenses, reviewed shots from earlier in the week. As I worked, I became acutely aware of how my eye had changed. How I framed things differently now—closer, bolder. Less concerned with pleasing an imagined audience, more interested in honesty.
