Six, maybe seven weeks before life starts asking things from us again.
Leo will be all-basketball. I’ll be preseason in August—August tenth, circled in red on my calendar. Boston. College. Training. Responsibility.
We talk about it the way people do when they’re not afraid anymore.
“We’ll be in the same city,” he says one night, tracing circles on my wrist.
“But not the same life,” I add.
He smiles. “That’s the point.”
We’re not trying to be everything to each other.
We’re choosing to be something real.
So we travel.
Not because we’re running—but because we can.
Paris tastes like butter.
That’s the first thing I learn.
Leo wakes me up early the first morning, drags me down narrow streets while the city is still yawning, and presses a warm croissant into my hands like it’s sacred.
“You have to eat it fresh,” he insists. “It’s the law.”
Crumbs dust my fingers. The pastry flakes everywhere. I laugh with my mouth full, and he wipes my lip with his thumb like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
We sit at café tables so small our knees bump. Drink coffee that ruins American coffee forever. Walk until our feet ache.
We get lost on purpose.
At night, the Seine glows, and I lean against the railing watching the lights ripple on the water.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I whisper.
Leo kisses my temple. “It is.”
And I believe him.
Italy is warmer.
The coast feels softer somehow—sunlight pouring over cliffs, salt on the air, time stretching. We eat slowly. Drink wine we can’t pronounce. Share plates just to taste everything.
I insist on paying.
Every. Single. Time.
“I have money now,” I remind him, smug.
He rolls his eyes. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
“It is,” I grin.
We swim. We nap. We talk about nothing and everything. He tells me stories about his dad I’ve never heard. I tell him about Ohio—about the girl I used to be without flinching.
I still see Dr. Bauer once a month. For today’s session we did zoom. I tell her about Paris. About Italy. About how happiness doesn’t feel dangerous anymore.
