Chapter Text
The morning sun hits the cobblestones just right—like Paris decided to gift-wrap itself just for me. The light is golden and warm on my skin, and the city hums around me, the air smelling faintly of espresso and ripe fruit from the market stalls. I press my phone a little closer to my face, squinting against the glare as Laurel’s voice crackles through FaceTime.
“Hold it up, Belly,” she says, which makes me smile.
“I am holding it up.”
“Higher. I can barely see you.”
I angle it again, walking slowly to avoid tripping over a crooked bit of sidewalk. “Better?”
“There she is,” my mom says, her voice softening. “Birthday girl.”
It’s a little funny to still hear Belly come out of her mouth. No one in Paris calls me that. Here, I’m Isabel. Isabel who wears red lipstick and knows her favorite arrondissements and always tips her bartender. Isabel who doesn’t cry in public anymore.
“Laurel Park reporting live from Philadelphia,” she says, lifting her mug. “Where your father has just made the world’s most deformed Mickey Mouse pancakes in your honor.”
I laugh. “Tell him I’m touched.”
“You’re twenty-two.”
“I know.”
“Do you feel twenty-two?”
“Honestly? Yeah. I do.” I catch my reflection in a shop window as I pass. Linen dress. Woven sandals. Peonies in hand—self-bought, obviously. I look like a woman who knows where she’s going. Even if sometimes I still don’t.
There’s a pause. She’s quiet for a beat too long.
“Mom?”
She glances away and then back. “I talked to Adam the other day.”
The name floats there for a second. Not heavy, but not weightless either.
“Oh,” I say. “How is he?”
“He’s good. He said Jeremiah’s seeing someone.”
I nod. “That’s good.”
“They’ve been together about six months,” she adds, her voice careful.
I stop at the crosswalk, letting a Vespa zoom past before stepping onto the next curb. “I’m happy for him.”
“You really are?” she asks.
“I really am.”
And I mean it. It’s not a reflex anymore, not something I say to convince myself. It’s just true. There’s no ache in my chest. Just… a quiet sort of gratitude that he’s okay. That I’m okay.
“I think you’re the bravest person I know,” Laurel says suddenly.
I smile. “Even braver than Steven when he let Taylor cut his hair?”
“Barely.”
We both laugh, and I feel something settle. Something good.
“I gotta go,” I say, spotting Gemma up ahead on the terrace of our usual brunch spot. “She’ll throw a fit if I’m late.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
I hang up just as Gemma notices me, her grin stretching wide. She stands from the table, arms open, gold hoops swinging and a Bloody Mary already in hand.
“There she is! Birthday goddess!” she yells across the street, drawing the attention of at least three people on bikes and one tiny dog.
I laugh and cross to her, ducking into her hug. She smells like sunscreen and fancy French shampoo and a little bit like last night’s gin.
“You look stunning,” she says, holding me at arm’s length. “Très Isabel.”
“Red lip felt right.”
“It always does.”
She pulls me into the shade of the umbrella and plucks the flowers from my hands to arrange them dramatically in a water glass.
“Omelets are coming. And yes, I already ordered you both caffeine and alcohol.”
“You know me so well.”
She sips from her straw, then grins like she’s got something juicy. “So. Birthday dinner tonight.”
I arch a brow. “What about it?”
“Benito texted me,” she says, sing-songy. “He’s planning something. Fancy. Romantic. Possibly involving oysters.”
My stomach flips. “Seriously?”
“Oh yes. He’s going full Spanish seduction mode.”
I laugh, but my cheeks flush a little. Benito. We’ve been orbiting each other for months now, falling into a rhythm that’s not quite casual but not serious either. Flirty coffees after my shifts, slow walks along the Seine, lazy Sundays with jazz records and tangled limbs and quiet. We haven’t called it anything. But whatever it is—it makes me feel good. Steady.
Gemma leans in, twirling her straw. “You’re excited.”
“I am.”
She grins. “You deserve this.”
I take a sip of coffee, the lipstick stain blooming red against the porcelain. Around us, the terrace buzzes with clinking glasses and bursts of French. The waiter nods at me like he knows my order by heart. A breeze lifts the hem of my dress. The moment feels light and full.
“You know,” I say, looking at her. “This time last year... I was a mess. No idea where I was going. No clue what I was doing.”
She blinks slowly, mock-serious. “And then you tackled a man in the middle of a nightclub like a goddamn legend.”
“Don’t forget the wedding dress.”
“Oh, how could I?”
We laugh, but underneath it there’s something real. That night changed everything. She could’ve just thanked me for helping her get away from that guy. Could’ve waved goodbye. Instead, she pulled me in. Sat me down. Let me rant and ramble and cry about how my ex-fiancé's brother told me he loved me too late, how the boy I almost married called it off the day of, how I lost everything and didn’t know who I was anymore.
And she just said: stay.
And I did.
Now I work at Ecoles Cinéma Club, threading film and pouring wine for arthouse snobs and drunk tourists alike. I sleep in a crooked old flat with Gemma and Max, where the windows rattle and the heat never works quite right. I read old poetry in cafés and know which Metro lines run late and which vendors sell the sweetest peaches. I wear red lipstick and don’t apologize for it. I’m not Belly anymore. At least not here.
The omelets arrive, and Gemma tops mine with cracked pepper and a tiny birthday candle she must’ve smuggled in her purse.
“To Isabel,” she says, raising her glass.
“To staying,” I say, lifting mine.
And we clink. And I breathe. And for the first time in a long, long while, I feel completely, deliciously full.
The light inside the cinema is dim and gold, the kind that settles into everything—dust, velvet, collarbones. The kind that makes even ghosts feel welcome.
I sweep popcorn kernels from behind the concession counter with one hand and tie back my hair with the other. The first show of the day is already trickling in—mostly couples, a few students, and one older man who always comes alone and claps softly after the credits roll. Casablanca tonight. Always a draw.
It’s funny. I’ve seen this movie at least a dozen times now, from this side of the theater. I know exactly when the audience laughs. I know the rhythm of Rick’s lines. I can tell which couples will whisper through the middle and which will cry near the end. I should be bored of it by now. But somehow, it still gets me.
I lean on the edge of the counter, watching the amber light spill from the projection booth, and suddenly I’m not in Paris anymore.
I’m back in Cousins.
That Christmas. The one before everything changed.
Just two days. That’s all it was. But I remember every second of it. The quiet. The warmth. The way the house creaked like it was remembering us, too.
We never planned to be there at the same time. I’d driven up alone, wanting air, wanting something that felt like mine. Jere was in France with his dad, skiing. My mom was off the grid. Steven was in New York. And Conrad—his flight must’ve been canceled. I didn’t know he’d come until I heard the jangle of keys at the front door and nearly impaled him with the fire poker.
We didn’t talk much. Barely said anything, really. I watched old movies on my laptop. He sat at the counter doing crossword puzzles. We shared grilled cheese and tomato soup. Moved around each other like two people pretending they weren’t glad to be in the same room again.
That night, we watched Casablanca.
I’d propped my laptop on the coffee table. He didn’t ask questions, just sat down next to me. Our knees touched. Our hands brushed. He passed me the bowl of chocolate pretzels without looking.
Jeremiah called while we were watching. I answered. Conrad had gone out to get more wood for the fireplace. The reception was bad—he was somewhere high in the mountains—but his voice still made my heart twist. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say Conrad’s here. But the words never came out.
We never told him. Not then.
But he found out anyway. A neighbor spotted Conrad’s car parked outside. Mentioned it to Adam. And from there, everything started to unravel.
That Christmas was the beginning of the end. But it was also... my favorite one. The quietest, the strangest, the most real. Just the two of us. And a movie that still makes my chest ache a little every time I hear the piano start.
I snap back to the present when a woman taps the counter and asks for sparkling water. I smile, ring her up, and direct her to screen two. The moment passes.
The theater settles into quiet as the trailers begin. I slip into the back row once the last person disappears through the curtain, hugging my knees to my chest as the screen flares to life.
The piano plays. The lights dim.
And there it is again. That feeling.
I think I could live a hundred lives and still—wherever I go—there would always be a memory of him tucked into the corners. Not painful. Just there. Soft around the edges. Woven into things I didn’t even realize we shared.
I don’t sit there thinking about what could’ve been. That’s not what this is. It’s just that sometimes, even in Paris, even in the golden hush of a tiny art house cinema, the past still flickers in like a reel I didn’t load.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...
Yeah. That line always gets me.
By the time I get home, the sun has dipped just low enough to cast long, honey-colored shadows on the walls of our apartment. The stairwell still smells like fresh bread from the bakery downstairs, and my calves ache in that good way—like I’ve been walking through a city that loves me back.
I jiggle the key in the stubborn old lock and push the door open with my shoulder.
Our apartment is chaos. Not the usual kind—Gemma’s half-unpacked tote bags and Max’s paint-stained overalls draped over the chairs—but the cardboard-box kind. The in-between kind. The end-of-an-era kind.
My stuff is everywhere. Labeled in my own handwriting: BOOKS, WINTER CLOTHES, KITCHEN STUFF BELLY PROBABLY WON’T NEED BUT REFUSES TO THROW OUT. I even wrote it all in Sharpie, like if I labeled it cleanly enough, the leaving would feel less messy.
“Home!” I call out, letting the door thud closed behind me.
“In the studio!” Gemma yells back, which in our apartment means the living room, which doubles as Max’s painting corner, which triples as our everything room.
I kick off my shoes and step carefully through the obstacle course of bubble wrap and packing tape. A tube of red oil paint rolls across the hardwood under my foot, and I hear Max mutter, “Shit—sorry!” before appearing from behind her easel.
She’s in one of Gemma’s old sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up, fingers stained green and gold. There’s a smudge of ochre on her cheekbone, and a streak of blue across her forearm.
“There you are,” she says, stepping over a canvas. “You smell like popcorn.”
“I worked the counter,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket. “Casablanca night.”
She gives a little hum. “Good one.”
Then she points to the kitchen table. “A package came for you. From the States.”
I glance at the box, medium-sized, brown, unassuming. I don’t move toward it. “Probably my mom. Or Taylor.”
“You gonna open it?”
“Later. I’m running late.”
Max shrugs and goes back to her canvas, already lost again in whatever world lives there.
I dodge the box entirely on my way to my room. My soon-not-to-be room. In exactly one week, I’ll be dragging the last of my boxes two Métro stops away to a shoebox apartment with a narrow balcony and a leaky faucet that I’m already in love with. My name is on the lease. Just mine. It’s the first time I’ll live truly alone. It feels huge and terrifying and grown.
I strip off my work clothes quickly, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above my desk. My hair’s a little windswept, my lipstick mostly faded, but my eyes are bright. I pull open the top drawer and fish out the black dress Gemma picked out for me last week when we were wine-drunk and online shopping. It’s slinky and low-backed and makes me look like someone who knows exactly what she wants.
I shimmy into it, twisting my hair up into a clip, slicking on fresh lipstick with a practiced swipe. The kind of red that says I am not waiting anymore.
Through the thin walls, I can hear Max humming along to Nina Simone. I zip my boots and toss a scarf into my bag just in case it gets chilly later. Then I glance, once, toward the kitchen table.
The package sits exactly where she left it. I don’t even look at the return label.
Later, I tell myself.
Right now, I have a dinner to get to. And Benito will be waiting.
I walk out the door without looking back.
Benito’s loft smells like roasted garlic and basil the second he opens the door.
“Happy birthday, Isabel,” he says, smiling like he means it, like he always does.
There’s music playing softly from his speakers—Chet Baker or someone who sounds like him—and the windows are cracked just enough to let in the city air. He kisses my cheek as I step inside, one hand grazing the small of my back in that easy, practiced way of his. Everything he does is warm. Familiar. He’s wearing a button-down with the sleeves rolled and his dark curls pushed back, just a little too perfect, like he stepped out of a painting and forgot to smudge.
“You cooked?” I tease, dropping my bag by the armchair.
“For you?” he says, guiding me toward the kitchen. “Of course.”
The table is already set—candles flickering low, plates stacked beside a basket of fresh bread. There’s a bottle of red breathing near the edge and two wine glasses waiting.
“I was going to take you out,” he says, moving around the kitchen like it’s choreography. “But then I remembered what you said last week about missing home-cooked food.”
“I meant grilled cheese,” I say.
He grins. “Close enough.”
The pasta is simple—cacio e pepe, with a bright arugula salad and lemon vinaigrette. The bread is warm, the wine smooth, and I find myself laughing more than I expected to. Benito is like that. He knows how to make a space feel like the inside of a secret. Knows how to make you feel like you’re the only one in the room.
He asks me about work, about the cinema. He listens, really listens, when I talk about the old man who claps at the end of every screening. He tells me a story about his neighbor’s cat getting locked in the laundry room again. We move through the meal like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
But every now and then, I catch myself floating above it all. Watching it play out like a scene I’m not entirely inside of.
He pours me another glass. “So. Twenty-two. How does it feel?”
“Good,” I say. “Lighter.”
“You look lighter.”
I smile at that. “I think I am.”
After dinner, we sit on the couch, the music lower now, the candles burned down to stubs. He turns toward me, one arm resting along the back, his knee brushing mine.
“I’m glad you stayed in Paris,” he says. “You’re good here.”
“I think so too.”
His eyes are soft. “Are you happy?”
“I’m getting there.”
He nods, like he understands more than I’m saying. Maybe he does.
There’s a beat of silence. Then—
“Are you staying tonight?” he asks, gentle, not pressing.
I look at him for a long second. He deserves honesty, even the quiet kind.
“I have an early morning,” I say softly. “I should head home.”
He nods again, just once. No resentment in it. Just that same steady kindness he always gives me.
I lean forward and kiss him—slow, warm, my hand resting lightly on his chest. He kisses me back, and it’s sweet, but something inside me stays still. I wish it weren’t like that. I wish I could fall for him fully, the way he deserves.
But wishes don’t make anything true.
When I pull back, he smiles anyway.
“Text me when you get home?” he says.
“Always.”
I slip back into my coat and grab my bag, thanking him again for dinner, for everything. He walks me to the door and presses one last kiss to my temple before I go.
Outside, the air has cooled, the sky deep blue above the rooftops. I walk slowly, letting the quiet wrap around me like a scarf.
Somewhere, a bell chimes the hour. I check my phone.
Still time. Still night.
Still something I can’t quite name lingering in my chest.
The apartment is quiet when I get in. The kind of quiet that tells me Gemma and Max aren’t home yet. They must’ve gone for drinks like they said they might. The lights are off, save for the glow of the lamp over the sink, and the city noise hums faintly through the open window.
I set my keys down slowly. My dress feels too fancy in the silence, my lipstick too loud.
Then I see it.
The box is still there on the table.
I walk over, casually at first. Just curious. Just tired.
And then I see the return label.
Conrad Fisher.
My breath catches. Like something sharp just caught in my ribs and refused to let go.
I don’t move right away. I just stare at the name. I run my thumb over it like I’m not sure it’s real.
Then I pick it up and carry it to my room.
The lamp on my desk casts soft, yellow light as I sit on the floor and set the box in front of me. My heart is pounding in a quiet, steady way. No panic. Just something close to awe.
I open the flaps carefully. And there he is.
Junior Mint.
He’s smaller than I remember. The sunglasses are still askew, and the scarf is still wrapped snug around his neck. He looks exactly the same and not at all.
I lift him gently from the box and hold him in my hands.
Conrad won him for me when I was thirteen. He was fourteen. It was one of those thick, humid Cousins days where the air felt like honey, and everything smelled like cotton candy and sunscreen. I remember standing at the boardwalk ring toss, watching the polar bears lined up on the top shelf like they were taunting me. I wanted one so bad. I must have stared at them every time we walked by.
But that day, Conrad had been busy watching her. Angie, the girl who worked the ring toss. She was older, pretty, all sharp collarbones and sun-bleached hair. He’d been too shy to talk to her all summer, so I helped. And then I walked away before I could cry.
He came back a couple hours later with Junior Mint in his arms. Handed him to me like it was no big deal.
That was the first time he broke my heart.
But I loved that bear. I kept him at the summer house—where he belonged. Tucked on the top shelf of my closet in my old room, safe between beach towels and faded swimsuits. A little piece of childhood. Of him. Of me.
I pull at the scarf, just gently, like I’m adjusting it.
That’s when I see it.
Still there. Still looped beneath the knit wool, hidden like a secret.
The silver infinity necklace.
He gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. I had tucked it around Junior Mint’s neck a long time ago.
But it’s here. After all this time.
I sit there with him in my lap for a long minute, just staring. The sunglasses, the scarf, the necklace.
It’s like holding my first love in my hands. All my little girl feelings. All the sweetness and ache of being thirteen and looking at someone like they were your whole future.
I reach for the envelope tucked beside the tissue paper. It’s not sealed, just folded. My name written in that slanted, familiar script.
I unfold the letter.
Dear Belly,
Happy birthday.
I hope 22 is better than 21.
I went back to Cousins last month. To check on the house after the hurricane. Nothing major—some flooding in the basement, a few trees down, the usual. I was looking for extension cords (sorry I stole yours) and found Junior Mint in your closet. Tucked away.
Figured you might want him back.
I remembered how you used to stand at the ring toss for what felt like hours every summer, just staring at the polar bears. You never asked for one. You just... looked. So of course I had to win one. I think I spent forty bucks trying to land a ring on that stupid bottle. My hand was sore for two days.
I hope it’s okay that I’m writing you. Laurel gave me your address—I asked. If it’s not okay... be mad at me, not her. I kind of talked her into it. And I brought her good coffee.
Steven says your French hasn’t gotten any better. I told him to mind his own business unless he’s suddenly fluent in anything other than sarcasm.
Anyway. I don’t really know why I’m writing. Maybe just to say hi. Maybe because Junior Mint reminded me of you.
Happy birthday, Belly.
—Conrad
That’s all. Just Conrad.
No “love.” No asking for anything. Just him.
Still, I sit there staring at the letter, reading it again like I missed something between the lines.
I look down at Junior Mint, still warm from my hands. I lift the scarf again and trace the shape of the necklace—soft, silver, unbroken.
Infinity.
He didn’t know it was still there. But I did.
I set Junior Mint carefully on my bed, the letter folded on my nightstand, my fingers lingering a second longer on the paper.
And then I sit back, cross-legged, watching the way the lamplight catches in the bear’s fur.
I don’t know what it means. If it means anything at all.
But somehow, he still found a way back to me.
And I’m not sure what that does to my heart.
Not yet.
Chapter Text
Chapter Text
The sky outside my window is gray in that cozy, early-autumn kind of way—like Paris is finally exhaling after the heat of August. I’m curled up on the couch with a cup of mint tea, the windows open just enough to hear the street noise below. Someone’s playing saxophone two blocks away, and it drifts up like a film score.
I have Taylor on speakerphone, the line crackling a little.
“Okay,” she says, “don’t scream. But Steven and I are thinking of coming for New Year’s.”
I sit up straight. “Wait, what?”
“New Year’s. Paris. Us. You. Fireworks. Champagne. Matching berets.”
“Shut up,” I say, grinning so hard my face actually aches. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” she says. “Steven’s been saving miles, and I found a flight deal this morning. We’d stay for like… a week. Ten days if we can swing it.”
“Taylor,” I say, pressing a hand to my heart, “I’m gonna cry.”
“Do not. You’re wearing mascara.”
“I’m not wearing anything. I’m in pajamas.”
“Same.”
I laugh, leaning my head back against the couch cushion. The idea of seeing them—of hugging Taylor, of watching Steven argue with Parisian cab drivers, of showing them my city—it fills me with this instant, overwhelming warmth.
“Laurel’s coming in October,” I say. “She’s already started making lists. She asked if there’s a Trader Joe’s in France.”
Taylor snorts. “Classic.”
“I miss you guys so much.”
“We miss you too.”
The silence hangs for a second. Not sad, just soft.
Then Taylor says, casually, “So… Conrad’s writing you, huh?”
I blink. “What?”
She hums. “Don’t play dumb. I know. Steven told me weeks ago.”
“He what?”
“They talk all the time now,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Way more than you and I do, which honestly? Rude.”
I shake my head, stunned. “I didn’t know they were close again.”
“Yeah, Steven went out to visit him in California last fall. It’s weird. But kind of sweet.”
“I was waiting for the right time to bring it up,” I say.
“I was waiting for you to.”
I smile, picking at the sleeve of my sweater. “The letters have been… nice.”
“Just nice?”
I exhale. “More than nice.”
But I don’t say more than that. I don’t say how I’ve read each one twice. How I keep them stacked in the drawer by my bed. How seeing his name on the paper makes something shift in me, every single time.
Taylor lets it sit for a second, like she’s giving me space.
Then—“You still seeing Benito?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Define sort of.”
“We have a date tonight. His place.”
She pauses. “Are you gonna tell him?”
I close my eyes.
“Not yet.”
Taylor doesn’t press. She never does, not when it really matters.
“Okay,” she says gently. “But you know, right? That you’re allowed to change your mind.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Yeah. I know.”
And I do.
But knowing and doing are two different things.
The call ends, but the warmth lingers.
I sit there for a minute, holding the silence, then toss my phone onto the couch and pull on a jacket. I’ve got time before work, and I need the air.
Paris is still sleepy when I step outside—vendors setting up stalls, leaves skittering along the sidewalks. I walk without a destination, weaving past flower shops and boulangeries, letting the rhythm of the city tug me forward.
I don’t think about Benito. Or I try not to.
He’s kind. Thoughtful. He buys me chocolate croissants and kisses me like he means it. But still, there’s this feeling—like I’m borrowing someone else’s life and forgetting to give it back. Like no matter how many times I say yes, there’s always a small voice inside me saying, not really.
When I get back to my apartment, there’s a soft buzz at the front door.
Mail.
I pad downstairs and open the little brass box.
Inside is one thing: a letter.
No box. No sour candy. Just an envelope with my name written across the front in Conrad’s messy handwriting. The slant is a little rushed, like maybe he wrote it standing up, maybe just before dropping it in the mail.
I run my thumb along the edge, then tuck it under my arm as I climb back upstairs. Junior Mint is still perched on my bedroom shelf, scarf slightly askew, watching like he knows what’s coming.
I sit on the floor beside the bed, tear the envelope open, and unfold the letter.
And the words—well. They're very… Conrad.
Dear Belly,
So far I’ve written you two letters and you’ve written me—well, none... which is fine. Go ahead and feel free not to write me back. Seriously, don’t feel obligated or anything. Even though I’ve sent you two handwritten letters and two gifts.
But seriously, don’t write back. I’m serious. It’s better this way. I like hearing my news secondhand. From Laur.
Speaking of news, she told me you met some Spanish guy named Benito, and he rides around on a scooter. Really, Belly? A guy named Benito with a scooter? He probably wears leather pants and has a long stringy ponytail. I don’t even want to know. Don’t tell me. He probably looks like a model and weighs 100 pounds and writes you poetry in Spanish. I don’t know what you see in a guy like that. But I don’t know what you ever saw in me either, so I guess there’s no accounting for taste, right?
Don’t forget—don’t write back.
— Conrad
I press the page to my mouth to hide the smile, even though there’s no one here to see it.
It’s ridiculous. It’s teasing. It’s Conrad being Conrad in the way only he can be—equal parts sardonic and sincere.
And it’s kind of perfect.
I trace one of the lines with my fingertip, imagining his voice. The way he’d roll his eyes at himself while reading it out loud. The way he’d glance over to see if I was laughing yet.
I am.
I fold the letter and slide it back into the envelope, adding it to the small stack in my nightstand drawer.
Then I stand, stretch, and check the clock.
Work in an hour. Dinner with Benito after.
The city outside my window is coming alive now, full of horns and voices and the faint echo of laughter.
But all I can hear is one line from the letter:
“I don’t know what you ever saw in me either.”
And I wish, for once, I had the nerve to tell him.
Exactly what I saw.
Exactly what I still see.
Benito made dinner again—roasted chicken with lemon and rosemary, buttery potatoes, grilled vegetables. Everything cooked to perfection, like always. He even had a record playing in the background, something soft and jazzy, and he poured me a glass of wine before I even sat down.
He always does things like that—small, thoughtful things. The kind that should add up to something more.
We talked about work, his friend’s short film, a museum exhibit I’ve been meaning to see. I told him about a customer who spilled soda all over the velvet aisle seats at the cinema and then just… vanished. He laughed. I laughed.
It was easy. Benito is easy.
But even then, even in that glow of good food and warm light and all the right pieces in place—there was a part of me that stayed on the outside, watching. Distant. Floaty. Like I couldn’t land in the moment no matter how hard I tried.
After dinner, he opened the doors to the patio. “Come,” he said, gesturing for me to follow.
The air was cool and fresh, still carrying that after-rain smell. From up here, the rooftops of Paris looked soft around the edges, and the sky was surprisingly clear—stars visible through the usual city haze.
“Look at that,” Benito said, tilting his head toward the sky. “You don’t get this many stars in the city very often.”
I wrapped my arms around myself and nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
He stood beside me, not quite touching but close enough. “You ever go stargazing back home?”
And just like that—I wasn’t in Paris anymore.
I was sixteen. Back on my lawn in Philly, the grass still damp, my hands freezing.
It was Valentine’s Day.
I hadn’t expected anything. Conrad had classes all day at Brown. I figured I’d get a text, maybe a sleepy phone call at night. That would’ve been enough.
But then he showed up. No warning. Just him on my front porch, his curls damp from the snow and a thermos of cocoa in his hand. No flowers. No chocolate. Just himself.
We’d laid down in the grass with my mom’s old quilt under us. He gave me his hoodie halfway through because I kept shivering and pretending I wasn’t. And he pointed up at the stars like they were his to give me. Orion. Cassiopeia. The Big Dipper. He guided my hand with his as he named them, like the night sky was a story only he knew how to tell.
I remember thinking—he didn’t bring me anything.
He brought me everything.
The moon. The stars. Infinity.
“Belly?”
Benito’s voice tugged me back.
I blinked. “Yeah. Sorry.”
He was looking at me now—really looking. “You okay?”
I looked at him—at the kind lines of his face, at the way he tried so hard to give me something real—and I knew. I couldn’t keep going like this. Not when part of me was still lying on that lawn in Philly, holding hot cocoa and looking at the stars with someone else.
“I need to tell you something,” I said softly.
He didn’t say anything. Just waited.
“I like you. I do. But… I don’t think I can keep doing this. It’s not fair to you.”
His eyes flickered. “Because of your ex? The one you told me about?”
I hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
I took a breath. “I thought I could keep it casual. That I could move on. But he keeps showing up… in my mail, in my head. And I don’t think that’s going to stop anytime soon.”
Benito looked down at his wineglass. Then back at me.
“So what are we, then?”
I smiled, even though my throat felt tight. “I’d like to be your friend. If you’ll let me.”
He was quiet for a second. Then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He looked at me, really looked at me. “I’d rather have your friendship than something that’s only halfway real.”
That made me want to cry a little. In a good way.
“Thank you,” I said.
We stood there a while longer. Quiet. The city below buzzing soft and low, the stars winking overhead like they knew something we didn’t.
I didn’t feel guilty.
I didn’t feel regretful.
I just felt… clear.
Like I’d stopped chasing something, and for the first time in a long time, I’d finally turned around to face the truth.
Notes:
I didn't change the third letter because it's my favorite of all the letters 😂
Chapter Text
The end of October always sneaks up on me.
One minute it’s late summer and I’m walking home in sandals, the next the metro is filled with people in coats and scarves and that early-evening chill settles into the cracks between buildings like it belongs there. Paris in the fall feels older somehow. The streets smell like roasted chestnuts and wood smoke, and the leaves turn the kind of yellow that makes you think of school notebooks and postcards.
The light changes too. It’s softer. Quieter. Golden in a way that makes the city look like a painting. The kind you want to walk right into and stay.
It’s been almost a month since Conrad’s last letter.
I’ve read it maybe... six times? Seven? I could probably recite it by now if I tried. The sarcasm, the stinging sweetness of it. That line—“Don’t forget—don’t write back.” Like a joke and a dare all at once.
I haven’t written him back. Still.
Junior Mint is sitting on the shelf above my bed, right next to the big economy-sized bag of Sour Patch Kids that I’ve only halfway finished. Every time I reach in for one, it’s like I hear his voice in my head again, teasing. “Don’t throw it out without opening it. You’d be missing out on the greatest housewarming gift of all time.”
He’s so... him. Even on paper. Even from thousands of miles away.
Still, the letters have stopped. And maybe it’s my fault. Maybe not writing back made things too quiet. Or maybe he meant what he said and wanted it that way. I don’t know. All I know is the silence feels heavier now than it did before.
My mom came to visit last month. She brought me two jars of peanut butter and a small mountain of Finch course packets that I told her I didn’t need. She didn’t care. She said if I wasn’t going to work on them, she would.
We walked through Montmartre and took the funicular to Sacré-Cœur. We ate pain au chocolat in the gardens near the Rodin museum, and she made me stop in front of every old building with a plaque so she could read it out loud like a tour guide. I let her. It was nice. Familiar in a way I didn’t realize I missed.
The apartment felt so much warmer with her in it. She rearranged my kitchen cabinets, cleaned out the mystery drawer I’d been avoiding, and made me dinner every night she was here. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to be mothered until I was.
The day she left, I cried in the shower for twenty minutes.
Not because I was sad, exactly. Just because having someone love you like that—so completely, so without question—sometimes opens up a part of you you didn’t know was locked.
And then, the next week, something else happened.
I was sitting on the windowsill with a cup of tea, watching the rain, when my phone started buzzing. It was a FaceTime call from an American number I didn’t recognize. I almost didn’t answer. But something in me said just pick up.
It was Jeremiah.
My heart actually stuttered.
“Hey,” he said, when I answered. His voice was softer than I remembered, like it had sanded down around the edges.
“Jeremiah?”
He smiled. It was tentative. “Surprise.”
“What—how—?”
“I got your number from Steven,” he said. “Hope that’s okay.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “My therapist... she suggested I reach out. Try to talk to people I have unfinished stuff with. You were... at the top of that list.”
I swallowed. “Oh.”
“Is this weird?” he asked quickly. “Because I can hang up if it’s weird.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not weird. Just... unexpected.”
We talked for a while. About nothing, mostly. His job. My job. He asked about my roommates and if Paris was really as magical as people said. I told him about Gemma and Max and the tiny cinema where I worked and how the heater still made that clicking sound when it turned on.
He smiled at that. “You always notice the weirdest details.”
“Still do.”
It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t even sad. It was just… something else. Like walking into a room you hadn’t been in since you were a kid. You remember the corners, the shape of the light, but the air is different. The space is smaller.
I didn’t bring up his girlfriend. Or the letters. Or Conrad. And neither did he.
But we said goodbye gently. Kindly. I told him I was glad he called. And I meant it.
Still, I stared at my phone for a long time afterward.
Everything feels like a ripple these days. One drop, and the water shifts.
The rest of October drifted by like a dream you can almost remember but never fully hold onto.
Halloween came and went. Celine dressed up as Wednesday Addams—full commitment, deadpan delivery and everything. Gemma made vampire bite cupcakes with raspberry filling that stained the whole kitchen counter. I wore cat ears to work and regretted it almost immediately when a little boy asked if I could purr.
November slipped in quietly, gray-skied and bone-chilled. The trees outside my window were mostly bare now, their golden leaves scattered like confetti across the sidewalks. The heaters in the cinema finally gave up, so we started handing out blankets at the ticket counter like some kind of vintage sleepover club. One woman asked if it was part of the experience. I told her, “Absolutely,” and she smiled like she believed me.
I fell into a rhythm. Woke up. Made coffee. Walked to the market. Went to work. Came home. Read half a novel. Rewatched Roman Holiday. Scrolled past pictures of other people’s Thanksgivings and tried not to miss my mom too much.
I hadn’t heard from Conrad.
The last letter was still sitting in the drawer beside my bed. I hadn’t written back. I didn’t know what to say. Every time I picked up a pen, something inside me froze.
And then—on a Thursday at the very end of the month, with December right around the corner—it happened.
I’d just come back from the market, two bags digging into my arms and my cheeks flushed from the cold. The wind had this bite to it, the kind that made your eyes tear up even if you weren’t sad. My hands were halfway numb when I saw the envelope on the floor inside the door.
My heart stuttered.
There, in that now-familiar handwriting, was my name.
Isabel Conklin
Paris, France
I held the letter against my chest for a moment before I let myself open it. My fingertips tingled as I peeled the flap open, careful not to rip it.
And then I read.
Dear Belly,
You didn’t write back.
I thought for sure you would.
You used to be so bad at following directions.
Now look at you.
Kidding.
Actually I’m not—remember that time you tried to make box potatoes au gratin and you forgot to put in the cheese?Speaking of potatoes au gratin, your mom made some for Thanksgiving. Laurel invited us to dinner—my dad and Jere and me. I wasn’t sure if Jere would come, but he did. It was awkward as hell. But then Steven put on football and we all just sat and watched and it was better.
During the half, Jere asked if I’d heard from you, and I said no. He said you’d been chatting online. He said you cut your hair shorter, that it makes you look older, more mature.
Then Laur showed us pictures from when she came to visit you. I want to go there some day.
I heard you aren’t hanging out with that guy Benito anymore.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you. . . .By the way, it looks good.
Your hair.
I don’t think it makes you look older, though. Younger, if anything.I might as well be completely honest here, because who even knows if you’re reading this—you might have thrown it out without opening it, which is your right.
But I’ll go ahead and say it—it killed me a little that Jere’s seen you, talked to you.But I don’t think he hates me anymore, which is the important thing.
Also—in case I haven’t made it clear…
I think about you a lot.
You’re pretty much all I think about.Just so we’re clear.
Conrad
I read it three times in a row, my legs folded underneath me on the couch, my coat still on, scarf still looped around my neck. The grocery bags sat untouched by the door. My tea went cold on the counter.
I don’t even know how to explain what it felt like, reading that.
Like the world paused.
Like someone cracked open the part of me I’d tried to keep locked tight and whispered, See? You’re not the only one.
Because I had been thinking about him too.
More than I should. More than I told anyone. More than I told myself.
I hadn’t said it out loud, not even to Taylor, but he was everywhere.
In the old movies I shelved at work. In the color of the sky at dusk. In the ache I got behind my ribs when I heard someone laugh the way he used to, that half-laugh, low and dry, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
I pressed the letter to my chest and closed my eyes.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile. I just sat there and let myself feel everything.
It would’ve been so easy to write back. Right then. I even pulled out paper. Set a pen beside it.
But then I stopped.
Because the truth was—I still didn’t know what to say.
Everything I wanted to tell him felt too big. Too much. And I didn’t want to do it halfway.
So instead, I folded the letter carefully, smoothing the crease, and slid it into the drawer beside his others.
Four now.
Four letters.
All from him.
All unopened by the world except for me.
I stood up, finally, and moved to the kitchen, making dinner by muscle memory—soup, toast, a handful of grapes in a chipped bowl.
Outside, the wind picked up, blowing leaves down the street in messy spirals. The city was already lighting up for Christmas, twinkling white and gold. Everything looked like it had been dusted with magic.
And inside, I let myself hope—just a little—that maybe he’d write again.
Maybe he already had.
Maybe something was starting.
Something slow. Something honest.
Something like a beginning.
Notes:
I can't wait for tonight's episode. At least we know for sure we are getting Conrad's letters ♥
Chapter Text
It snowed the day Steven and Taylor arrived.
Real snow, not the soft flurry-tease we’d gotten a few times in November. This was the kind that stuck—thin, crisp layers dusting the rooftops and turning every tree into a sculpture. Paris looked like it belonged in a snow globe, delicate and still, the world muffled and shining.
I met them at the train station with a scarf pulled up to my nose and fingers numb from waiting too long with a paper cup of café crème. Steven spotted me first and waved so hard he nearly took out a man’s baguette. Taylor came right after, dragging a too-big suitcase and wearing earmuffs shaped like pink cat heads.
“Isabel Conklin!” she yelled, grinning as she jogged toward me.
“You’re wearing those in public?” I asked, laughing into her hug.
“I wore them through customs,” she said. “I fear nothing.”
Steven pulled me into his arms and held on tight, long enough to make my throat ache a little. “You’re so skinny,” he muttered into my hair. “Are you eating?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Seriously. You look like a French painting. One of the tragic ones.”
We all burst out laughing, and just like that—it felt like home again.
They stayed for two weeks, and everything about those days shimmered a little brighter with them in it.
Taylor called the apartment “quaint-chic” and took pictures of everything, even the chipped tile in the bathroom. Steven tried to fix my radiator on the first day and accidentally shut off the water to the whole building. Max and Gemma took to calling them “les Américains,” like they were their own reality show.
We drank wine under strings of fairy lights in Gemma’s courtyard. We watched Amélie in my cinema with a broken heater, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by buttery popcorn. Taylor learned exactly five phrases in French and used them with reckless abandon, often in the wrong context. (She told a waiter “I am cheese” three times in one lunch.)
Benito came out with us a few times—he brought his own friends to one of the dinners, all of whom wore turtlenecks and talked about cinema in a way that made Steven whisper, “Is this a French cult?”
But then Benito made a toast to friendship and new beginnings, and even Steven had to admit he was cool. Taylor approved too, but later whispered, “He’s no Conrad,” while pretending to sip her drink.
I didn’t respond.
We danced into Christmas. Into New Year’s. Into every corner of the city.
Celine hosted a big party in her boyfriend’s artist loft near Canal Saint-Martin—long windows, a makeshift bar made from stacked crates, and disco lights that bounced off the tin ceiling. The music was loud and wild, the kind that makes your bones buzz. I wore a borrowed dress and red lipstick, and when midnight came, we all screamed the countdown in different languages. I kissed Taylor on the cheek. Steven threw glitter in the air. Benito spun me in a circle and dipped me like we were in a black-and-white movie.
It was joyful. Loud. Real.
And still, part of me stood a little apart from it. Watching. Waiting.
Because when you’ve spent so long holding your breath, it’s hard to remember when it’s safe to exhale.
They left on the second of January, bundled in scarves and goodbye hugs, promising they’d come back in spring. After they were gone, the apartment felt too quiet, like it had grown bigger without them. I stripped the beds and did laundry and stood in the doorway of the kitchen for ten minutes without knowing why.
That’s when the knock came.
Not the buzzer. A knock.
I padded barefoot across the tile and opened the door.
Nothing.
Just the wind curling through the hallway. And a letter on the floor.
My name written in his handwriting.
Isabel Conklin
Paris, France
I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I sank down onto the couch with the envelope in my hands. My fingers tingled.
I opened it slowly. Carefully. Like it might fall apart if I rushed.
Dear Belly,
It’s Christmas here. I guess it’s Christmas where you are too. I went to the summer house for a few days. I kept thinking I’d turn around and see you—stuffing your face with chocolate pretzels, or sliding around the downstairs living room in those god-awful mistletoe pajama pants. I bet my mom bought them for you. She used to buy Jere and me matching Christmas sweaters. There’s one horrible family portrait of all of us in red button-downs and reindeer bowties. It’s basically a blight on humanity. I hid it in the attic one night and no one’s seen it since. If you’ve been a very good girl this year, maybe I’ll show you when you come back. My gift to you.
You know what you could give me? A letter back. Hell, I’ll even take a postcard. Or an email. Anything. I just want to hear from you. I want to know how you’re doing. By the time you get this, Christmas will have passed—I hope it was a nice one.
Merry Christmas, Belly. Remember that time? Me and you at the summer house? Best Christmas of my life.
Love,
Conrad
I didn’t cry.
Not right away.
I read it once. Then again. Then I folded it slowly and held it to my chest and let the silence of the room settle around me like snow.
It was the mention of that Christmas that did it.
Because I remembered it too.
Not just the details—the peppermint bark and the ocean walks and the way we kept the fire going all night—but the feeling of it. The hush. The heat. The way it felt like we were the only two people on the planet who understood something that couldn’t be said out loud.
That week—before everything shattered—was ours.
I thought of the other letters. The ones stacked in the drawer. The ones I hadn’t answered.
I thought of the way his handwriting had gotten messier. More vulnerable. How even in his sarcasm there was something raw.
He missed me.
And the thing I finally admitted—to myself, to the quiet, to the version of him living in my memories—was this:
I missed him too.
I missed him in the cracks of my day. In the empty space beside me at night. In the way I still looked up when I heard a dry, low laugh in a crowd.
And more than missed him—I loved him.
Still.
Always.
That part had never gone away. It had only gone quiet.
That night, I lit the candle Gemma bought me at the Christmas market and sat at the kitchen table with a pen in my hand and a blank sheet of paper in front of me.
And I wrote.
Conrad,
Okay. You win. I’m writing back.
I’m sorry it took me so long. I don’t really have a good excuse. I think part of me was afraid that if I wrote back, everything would start again. And part of me was afraid that if I didn’t, it would end forever. So I sat in the middle. For a long time.
But I’ve been thinking about you too. Every day, if I’m being honest. And not just the memories—though there are a lot of those—but you, now. Writing me letters. Missing me. I guess what I’m saying is... it’s not one-sided. It never was.
I don’t know what this means yet. Or what it should mean. I just know that I don’t want the silence anymore. I don’t want to keep pretending you’re not the thing I think about most.
So... if you still want to. If you still mean it.
Come to Paris.
I want you to.
Love,
Belly
I signed it before I could second guess myself. Folded it. Sealed it. Stared at it for a long time before finally walking down to the postbox at the end of the street.
The air outside was freezing, breath-cloud visible and sharp. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt warm.
It was early January.
A new year.
And for the first time in a long time, something felt possible again.
Chapter Text
I was brushing my hair when it happened.
The morning light came in golden and slanted through the kitchen window, casting little streaks on the floor like brushstrokes. Paris light is different in March—gentler, but more awake. Like it knows spring is coming and isn’t afraid to say it.
I ran the brush through my hair slowly, still not used to the length. I’d cut it two weeks ago—just past my shoulders now, angled like a long bob. I’d told myself it was for a change, for a fresh start. Something lighter.
But if I was being honest, part of me had wondered what he would think of it.
Not that I expected him to ever actually see it.
I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my purse, checked that I had my keys and wallet and phone, and then opened the front door—
And froze.
There, in the doorway, was him.
Conrad Fisher.
Backlit by the pale hallway light, wearing the same navy jacket I’d seen in my dreams, a suitcase by his side and his hair a little too long like he hadn’t bothered to get it cut in a while. His eyes were as wide as mine.
My heart shot up into my throat.
“Conrad?” I whispered, barely trusting it.
He shifted slightly, like maybe he thought I was about to slam the door.
“Hey,” he said softly.
I stared at him, and for a second, everything around us dropped away. The neighbor’s door slamming down the hall. The echo of footsteps on the stairs. Even the nervous fluttering of my own breath.
He was here.
He was here.
I didn’t think. I didn’t even breathe.
I just threw my arms around him and hugged him so hard I felt his breath catch. His hands came up—hesitantly at first, then fully, wrapping around my back like he couldn’t believe I was real either.
He smelled the same. That clean, warm scent that lived somewhere in my memory. My heart beat like it was trying to climb its way out of my chest.
When I finally pulled back, I kept my hands on his arms, as if letting go might break the spell.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” I said, breathless.
Conrad rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Um. I kind of can’t either.”
We both laughed, quiet and stunned.
Then came a beat of silence. He looked at me—really looked—and tilted his head slightly.
“You cut your hair.”
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded. “Yeah. Needed a change.”
And then—without even thinking—he reached out and touched the end of it. Just gently, like a single brush of his fingers over the strands. His touch was featherlight, but I felt it everywhere. My breath hitched.
He blinked. Then cleared his throat. “I like it.”
My face warmed. “Thanks.”
Another moment passed. Then I remembered we were still standing in the hallway like two people who had no idea what to do next.
“Do you… do you want to come in?”
His eyes snapped up. “If—if that’s okay.”
I stepped back and opened the door wider. “Of course.”
Inside, the apartment was still messy from my usual morning rush. My coat was slung over a chair. A mug with tea leaves clinging to the bottom sat forgotten on the counter. I suddenly saw it all through his eyes—small, lived-in, unmistakably mine.
He stood in the middle of the living room, looking a little dazed.
I sat on the edge of the couch and motioned for him to sit too.
He hesitated. Then sat. Hands folded. Suitcase still next to him like he wasn’t sure if this was temporary or not.
“So…” I said.
He looked at me. Really looked at me.
“I got your letter,” he said.
That alone made my chest go tight. I nodded, unsure what to say.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” he continued. “I read it probably ten times before I believed it was real.”
“I meant it,” I said.
Conrad smiled, almost shy. “I could tell.”
We sat in that soft quiet for a moment, the morning light painting golden shapes on the rug.
“This was kind of… impulsive,” he admitted. “I didn’t even look at hotel options until I landed.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Wait—so you just showed up here… with no place to stay?”
He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “I know, it’s crazy. I just—I wanted to see you first. Before I figured out the rest.”
And suddenly, I was sixteen again. On the lawn. Looking at stars while he pointed them out to me. The boy who never did anything halfway when it came to me.
I looked at him, at the suitcase, and without hesitating said, “You can stay here.”
His eyes widened. “Belly—”
“There’s a couch,” I said quickly. “It’s not huge, but it’s yours. If you want it.”
He blinked, processing. “Are you sure?”
I smiled. “Yes. I’m sure.”
He looked down. Then up. “I just didn’t want to, you know… show up out of nowhere and mess up your life.”
“You didn’t,” I said.
And then, without thinking, I leaned forward and hugged him again.
He was warm and real and here. And being near him again—so close—I could barely function.
I didn’t want to let go.
I finally pulled back. “I have to go to work,” I said, already regretting it. “But get settled. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back soon.”
He nodded, and I could see he was still stunned. Like he hadn’t totally landed yet.
I picked up my purse. Walked to the door.
But right before I stepped out, I turned back.
He was still sitting on the couch, suitcase beside him, hair falling over his eyes.
“I’m really happy you’re here,” I said softly.
And for the first time since opening the door, he smiled like he believed me.
“Me too,” he said.
When I got home from work, the apartment was dark, except for the soft yellow glow from the lamp by the couch.
Conrad was asleep.
He was curled up like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, one arm tucked under his head, his mouth slightly open. His jacket was draped over the arm of the couch, his shoes still on the floor beside him. And there—next to his suitcase—was him. Real and here. In my apartment. In Paris.
For a second I just stood there and stared.
His hair had fallen across his forehead and the little crease between his brows was softer, smoothed out in sleep. He looked younger. Lighter. Like maybe the weight he always carried around had finally shifted off his shoulders for a minute.
I didn’t want to wake him.
Instead, I slipped off my coat and moved into the kitchen, keeping the lights low. I opened the fridge and pulled out what I had—eggs, a half-used tomato, spinach, a wedge of cheese. I started cracking eggs into a bowl, added some milk, and began whisking. The smell of olive oil and garlic quickly filled the apartment.
I was grating cheese when I heard him stir.
Conrad’s voice was thick with sleep when he said, “That smells really good.”
I turned and smiled at him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He blinked a few times and sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “No, I’m glad you did. What time is it?”
“A little past eight.”
He stretched, then stood, still a little dazed. “You cooked.”
I shrugged. “Thought I’d make us dinner. You hungry?”
“Starving,” he said, and I swear he looked at me like that meant more than just food.
A few minutes later, we sat across from each other at the little table by the window. It was dark outside now, the city lit up in golds and whites. We ate omelets and buttered toast and drank red wine from mismatched glasses.
It felt normal. Easy. But the air between us was charged with something else.
After we finished eating, we stayed at the table. Talking about nothing and everything.
He told me about med school, about a rotation that nearly broke him and a professor who looked like Gandalf and never wore shoes. I told him about work, about the regulars at the cinema and how one old man insists on giving me licorice every Thursday.
We laughed. A lot. There were stretches of silence too, but not the awkward kind. The kind that says, I’m okay sitting in this moment with you.
I don’t know what made me say it.
Maybe it was the wine. Or the way he looked at me when I wasn’t looking at him. Or maybe it had just been living inside me all this time, waiting for the right moment.
“I still think about that night.”
Conrad looked up from his glass. “What night?”
I swallowed. “My bachelorette party. On the beach. When you told me…”
His gaze didn’t drop.
“When you told me you still loved me.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just waited.
“I think about what I said to you,” I whispered. “How I told you that you would never be what Jeremiah was to me.”
Conrad’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the flicker in his eyes.
“I was trying to hurt you,” I said, quietly. “I was trying to make you forget me. Because if I didn’t, I was afraid I wouldn’t go through with it.”
He stayed quiet for a moment. Then:
“I know you didn’t mean it.”
I looked at him.
He held my gaze. “And I meant what I said.”
My breath hitched.
The room felt suddenly smaller, like all the air had condensed into this one shared truth sitting between us.
I nodded. “I know.”
We sat there in the stillness, staring at each other. My heart beating like it wanted to say something I wasn’t ready to say yet.
Then I stood. The chair scraped softly against the floor.
“It’s late,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I should go to bed.”
Conrad nodded, standing too. “Of course.”
I glanced at the couch, then back at him. “I was able to take the next couple of days off. So… we can figure everything out tomorrow.”
He smiled. “Okay.”
I walked to the hallway, then turned just before my bedroom door.
“Goodnight, Conrad,” I said.
He smiled again—smaller this time, softer.
“Goodnight, Belly.”
I closed the door behind me, but I didn’t move right away.
I stood in the dim light of my bedroom, heart still beating too fast, fingers curled around the doorknob like I needed something to anchor me. On the other side of the wall, Conrad Fisher was unfolding a blanket for the couch, maybe fluffing one of the throw pillows, maybe just standing there the same way I was—stunned and overwhelmed and not sure what to do with the way the air felt different now.
He was here. In Paris. In my apartment.
I pressed my hand to my chest like that might calm it. It didn’t.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the sheets still a little messy from this morning. The lamp on my nightstand cast a warm glow, and outside the window, the city blinked soft and gold. But none of it felt real.
All I could think about was him. The way he said my name. The way he touched the ends of my hair like it meant something. The way I never wanted him to leave again.
On the other side of the wall, Conrad breathed.
And for the first time in months, so did I.
Chapter Text
I was up before the sun.
The apartment was quiet—still holding the hush of sleep—and I padded barefoot into the kitchen, wrapping my cardigan tighter around me. The floor was cold against my feet, but it felt good in that grounding kind of way. Real. Like everything that had happened yesterday wasn’t a dream.
Conrad Fisher was asleep on my couch.
I stood there for a second, letting the stillness sink in, then reached for the French press. I scooped the coffee grounds in slowly, measured out the boiling water, stirred, waited. The familiar ritual of it helped steady me.
Behind me, I heard movement—soft footsteps and the low stretch of someone waking up.
“Morning,” he said, voice still raspy with sleep.
I turned around. He was leaning against the doorframe, hair tousled, t-shirt wrinkled, looking unfairly good for someone who’d slept on a couch.
“Morning,” I echoed, and smiled. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good,” he said, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Better than I thought I would, honestly.”
“Jet lag hasn’t kicked in yet?”
“Maybe it hasn’t caught up to me.”
I poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to him. Our fingers brushed for half a second, and I pretended not to notice the way my stomach flipped.
He took a sip. I took one too.
We were both still in pajamas—mine were flannel with tiny strawberries on them, his were just sweatpants and a faded college tee—and the whole scene felt domestic in a way that sent a thrill of panic and joy down my spine.
“Can I help with breakfast?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, and opened the fridge. “You good at eggs?”
“I make a mean scramble,” he said, smiling.
We were mid-breakfast prep—Conrad stirring eggs, me slicing up strawberries—when the front door opened.
I froze for a second, then remembered.
Celine.
She had a spare key from when I locked myself out last month and hadn’t bothered to return it. She said she’d swing by to pick up a dress I borrowed for that one work event and never gave back.
“Isabel?” she called. “Je suis là!” (I’m here!)
“In the kitchen!” I called back, scrambling to smooth my hair and hoping I didn’t look too rumpled.
She appeared a moment later, in her usual tailored coat and perfect lipstick, and stopped dead in the doorway.
Her eyes moved from me to Conrad, then back to me.
Conrad looked up from the eggs and offered a small wave. “Hi.”
“This is… my friend,” I said quickly, cheeks warming. “From America. Conrad.”
Celine’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she tilted her head, assessing.
She looked right at me and said in French, “Il est canon.” (He’s hot.)
I gave her a look and replied in French just as fast, “Tais-toi.” (Shut up.)
Conrad blinked, clearly understanding none of it, but smiled politely anyway.
Celine smiled like the cat that caught the canary. “Nice to meet you, Conrad,” she said smoothly, switching back to English. “I’m Celine. I live down the street.”
“Nice to meet you too,” he said.
She turned to me. “I’ll just grab the dress.”
“Top of the closet,” I told her.
As soon as she disappeared into my bedroom, Conrad glanced at me. “What did she say?”
“Nothing important,” I said, sipping my coffee.
He gave me a look. “It definitely wasn’t nothing.”
I shrugged, but I was smiling. “She said you’re hot.”
He looked down at the eggs like they’d personally offended him. “Oh.”
“You okay?” I teased.
“I’m fine,” he said, ears slightly pink. “Just wasn’t expecting that before breakfast.”
“Welcome to Paris,” I said.
He laughed. And I couldn’t help it—I did too.
Celine came back out with the dress and gave me one last meaningful look before heading to the door. “Don’t forget dinner next weekend.”
“I won’t.”
She lingered a second. “Tu vas me raconter tout plus tard.” (You’re going to tell me everything later.)
I nodded once, firmly. “Bien sûr.” (Of course.)
Then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
I turned to find Conrad looking at me with that quiet amusement of his.
“She’s gonna want the full story,” I said.
“Guess we better figure out what the story is,” he replied, voice soft.
And for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
I looked at him for a long second after he said it—Guess we better figure out what the story is.
And maybe it was the way his voice dipped quiet, like he was scared to say too much. Or the way his eyes looked more open than I’d ever seen them.
But something inside me softened.
“Okay,” I said.
Just that.
Okay.
And then—he smiled. That real, crooked, totally unguarded smile that I hadn’t seen in a long time. The kind that used to make my knees feel like they forgot how to hold me up.
He turned back to the eggs, flipped them once, and said, “Then let’s eat.”
We sat down at the little kitchen table, plates full of scrambled eggs, toast, and strawberries. Everything was slightly overcooked and the strawberries were a little too ripe, but it didn’t matter. It was the best breakfast I’d had in months.
“You know what we have to do now, right?” I said, taking a bite of toast.
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Tourist things.”
Conrad blinked. “Tourist things?”
“Yeah. You came all the way to Paris, and if you think I’m going to let you sit around my apartment for a week doing nothing, you’re insane. We’re doing the whole list. Hop-on-hop-off bus tour. The Louvre. Eiffel Tower. Boat ride on the Seine. Everything.”
He grinned. “You’ve lived here how long, and you haven’t done all that yet?”
I shrugged. “Bits and pieces. But not all of it. Not like this.”
“Like this?”
I looked at him, really looked at him. “With someone who wants to see it with me.”
Conrad didn’t say anything for a second. Then he reached for his coffee, took a sip, and said, “I’m in.”
We finished breakfast slow, the kind of slow where no one’s in a hurry to break the moment. And when he offered to do the dishes, I didn’t stop him. I just stood at the sink beside him, rinsing while he dried, bumping elbows and stealing glances, trying not to smile too much.
Because it was already starting to feel like something.
Like we were building something again, from the ground up.
Like the story was already beginning.
We got dressed slowly, in that lazy, easy rhythm that only happens when no one’s in a rush. I pulled on a sweater and my favorite boots, tucked a scarf into my coat collar. Conrad emerged from the bathroom in jeans and a navy sweatshirt, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked like California in Paris—sunlight tucked into gray.
“Ready?” I asked, grabbing my keys.
He gave me a little smile, then tugged his sleeves down over his hands. “Ready.”
We stepped out into the crisp March air, the street alive with soft chatter and clinking dishes from the café downstairs. The sky was that winter-blue shade that always felt like a secret—cool and clean and wide open.
I glanced over at him as we walked side by side down the narrow sidewalk. His hands in his pockets, his shoulders brushing mine every so often. Just enough to notice.
It still didn’t feel real.
Conrad Fisher. In Paris. With me.
And yet—he was here.
Here.
As the wind picked up, I smiled into my scarf and said quietly, “First stop, the Eiffel Tower.”
He looked at me, eyes shining, and said, “Lead the way.”
And we walked on. Together.
Chapter Text
Paris felt different with him in it.
I don’t know how else to explain it. Like something had been slightly out of focus all this time and now, suddenly, it wasn’t. The light seemed warmer. The streets felt softer underfoot. I caught myself smiling more than once for no real reason at all.
Maybe I was just seeing the city through his eyes.
We started our day at the café downstairs, the one I usually only went to when I was running late or needed a quick espresso before a shift. But with Conrad sitting across from me, wrapped in his navy coat and tousle-haired from the wind, it felt like the beginning of something worth savoring.
He ordered black coffee, no sugar, no milk—of course—and I got a croissant and a cappuccino with cinnamon on top, the way Celine taught me to ask for it. The air was brisk, but the sun was out, and we sat outside under the awning, watching the city wake up around us.
“What do people even do first when they come to Paris?” he asked, sipping his coffee.
I tapped a finger on the little tourist map I’d dug out of my drawer that morning. “Well, some of us have lived here for months and still haven’t done the real touristy stuff. So today’s our chance.”
He raised a brow. “You’ve never been to the Eiffel Tower?”
“I’ve seen it,” I said, defensive. “I just haven’t… been up it.”
“Scared of heights?”
“Scared of lines,” I muttered, making him laugh.
It was easy, being with him again. Too easy. Like slipping on an old sweatshirt you forgot still fit just right.
We spent the next hour wandering down the Champs-Élysées, hands stuffed in pockets, pointing out weird shop displays and the occasional little dog in a coat that made us both grin like idiots. Conrad stopped to take a picture of a statue outside the Grand Palais.
“What’s this one called?” he asked.
“No clue,” I said, squinting. “But I like that he looks really mad about it.”
We made it to the Seine by midday, and I insisted we get crepes from the stand by the water. He got Nutella and banana. I got lemon sugar. We leaned against the stone wall and watched the boats go by, the wind picking up in gusts that made my hair whip around like it was dancing.
“You seem happier,” he said quietly.
I glanced at him. “Than when?”
“Than that summer.”
I looked back out at the river. “I am.”
A beat passed.
“Good,” he said, and I could feel the warmth of it more than I heard it.
The Louvre was next. We didn’t go inside—again, the line—but we sat on the wide ledge near the glass pyramid and people-watched. He handed me a half-melted mint from his coat pocket, and I took it without question, just like old times.
“You ever think about what it would’ve been like if none of that happened?” I asked, not even sure what I meant. Maybe the wedding. Maybe all of it.
He didn’t answer right away.
“Sometimes,” he said finally. “But I don’t think we’d be here if it hadn’t.”
We fell quiet after that.
The afternoon stretched golden and slow. We hopped on a river cruise because I convinced him it was mandatory tourist behavior. He didn’t complain. Just sat beside me on the bench, his thigh brushing mine lightly, both of us watching the city drift past like a dream we weren’t ready to wake up from.
At one point, I leaned my head on his shoulder.
Not because I was tired.
Just because I wanted to.
And he let me.
The sun had just begun to sink behind the rooftops when we stepped off the boat and wandered back toward the Seine. The light had turned a syrupy gold, casting long shadows on the cobblestones, and the wind had softened to a breeze that tugged gently at the hem of my coat. Neither of us said much. We didn’t have to.
We kept walking, close but not touching, the sounds of the city humming all around us—clinking glasses from cafés, muffled laughter spilling out of open windows, the low roll of distant traffic. It was the kind of moment you wanted to press between the pages of a book so you could come back to it later.
When we paused at the edge of a little stone bridge, I looked down at the water glinting beneath us, reflecting the orange of the sky and the twinkle of early lights flicking on across the opposite bank.
And then I just… did it.
I reached for his hand.
I didn’t think about it. I didn’t second-guess. My fingers just found his like they remembered the way.
Conrad blinked and looked down at where our hands met. And then—he smiled. That real smile, the one that took over his whole face. Like a secret only I was allowed to know.
He gave my hand the softest squeeze, and my chest ached in that quiet, dangerous way it only ever did with him.
We crossed the bridge that way, hand in hand, like no time had passed.
Dinner was at a tiny bistro tucked between two shuttered bookstores. One of those places you only find by accident and never forget. The kind with candles in old wine bottles and chalkboard menus propped up against exposed brick walls.
The hostess greeted us in French, and Conrad immediately looked at me like I was a lifeline.
“I’ve got it,” I whispered.
I told her we’d like a table for two near the window, and she led us to a cozy spot in the corner where the fading sunlight still touched the edges of the tablecloth. Conrad leaned over as we sat down, eyebrows raised.
“You speak it really well,” he said, visibly impressed.
I shrugged, suddenly shy. “You kind of have to, if you want your coffee made right.”
He smiled. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
When the waiter came over, I ordered for both of us—two glasses of red wine, a goat cheese salad to start, and coq au vin for the main. I could feel his eyes on me the whole time, and when the waiter walked away, he shook his head.
“You’ve really made a life here, huh?”
I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m trying.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. Then: “It suits you.”
I didn’t ask what “it” meant. Paris. The language. The independence. All of it. Instead, I said, “I like who I am here. I didn’t at first. But now… yeah.”
Dinner was slow and warm and full of easy laughter. We talked about everything and nothing—movies, the strange bread in French supermarkets, that time Steven tried to do a backflip off the Cousins dock and ended up with a nosebleed.
I couldn’t stop looking at him. How he still cut his food the same way. The way he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater when he got too warm. That soft crease between his brows when he was thinking.
God, I’d missed him.
After we paid, we stepped back out into the night. Paris had shifted again, like it always did—more shadow than light now, more hush than hum. But beautiful still. Always.
A man with a small speaker and an old guitar was playing something soft and nostalgic across the street. It was in French, but I recognized the melody—something slow and old and familiar, the kind of song that wraps around your ankles and pulls you toward it.
I slowed down. “Let’s listen for a sec.”
We stopped near the edge of the plaza, the light from the bistro windows behind us casting a faint halo on the ground.
“That’s nice,” Conrad said.
I glanced at him sideways. “Do you remember when you taught me how to shag dance?”
He blinked. “That was so long ago.”
“I was thirteen,” I said. “We moved the coffee table out of the way.”
“You kept stepping on my feet,” he said, smiling.
“You were a terrible teacher.”
“You were a terrible student.”
I laughed. “You never let me lead.”
“That’s because you were twelve,” he said.
“Thirteen,” I corrected, and before I could overthink it, I held out my hand.
He stared at it.
Then at me.
Then back at my hand.
And he took it.
We stepped into the music like it had been waiting for us.
Our feet moved slowly, rhythmically, not quite shag dancing, not quite anything. Just movement. Just closeness. I could feel his breath, warm against my temple. I rested my hand on his shoulder and let him guide me, our steps small and careful on the cobblestones.
It didn’t feel like dancing. It felt like remembering.
Like reclaiming something we thought we’d lost.
We turned once, twice. The streetlamp caught the glint in his eyes.
And then I looked up at him, and I didn’t look away.
The space between us tightened. My heart raced. His hand hovered near my waist, uncertain.
I leaned in first.
Just barely.
My nose brushed his.
And then I kissed him.
Softly. Slowly.
Like we had all the time in the world.
His lips parted against mine, and he kissed me back the way only Conrad ever had—tender and tentative and all-consuming, like he was afraid to break something, but more afraid not to try.
I felt my hands slide into his coat, my fingers curling into the fabric like I needed something to hold onto, something real. He pulled me closer, just a breath, just enough to press his forehead to mine when we parted.
Neither of us said anything.
We didn’t need to.
It wasn’t a first kiss. It wasn’t a second.
It was… a continuation.
A pause lifted.
A sentence resumed.
He brushed a knuckle along my cheekbone and looked at me like I was a secret only he got to keep.
I smiled.
So did he.
And then we walked home. Quiet. Close. Fingers laced.
Like maybe we were starting something again.
But this time, on our terms.
It was nearly midnight by the time we got back to my apartment.
The air inside felt warmer than I remembered, like the glow from the city had followed us in. I turned on a small lamp near the couch, casting the room in soft amber light, and slipped off my coat, draping it over the back of a chair.
Conrad didn’t say anything at first. He just stood in the entryway, like he wasn’t sure what to do now that the world had quieted.
I could still feel the ghost of his hand in mine. The press of his lips. That weightless, breathless feeling that hadn’t left me since we danced in the street.
“You want tea?” I asked, to fill the silence.
He nodded, and I moved toward the tiny kitchen, pulling down mugs and flipping the kettle on. Behind me, I heard him sit down on the couch. I glanced back to find him leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands laced.
Like he was trying to work something out.
I brought over the tea and handed him a mug. He took it with a small smile.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
We sat side by side on the couch, both cradling our mugs, both not saying the one hundred things clearly sitting on the tips of our tongues.
Eventually, it was me who broke the silence.
“That wasn’t nothing,” I said, looking down at my tea. “What happened tonight.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “No. It wasn’t.”
I looked up at him. “I don’t know what this is, Conrad. I really don’t. But I can’t pretend it’s nothing.”
He nodded slowly. “I don’t want you to.”
Another beat of silence. The kettle clicked off again, long cooled.
He set his mug down carefully on the coffee table and turned toward me.
“I didn’t come here expecting anything,” he said, voice low. “I swear, Belly. I didn’t have some plan. I just… I missed you. And I didn’t want to miss you quietly anymore.”
The honesty of that hit somewhere deep.
I blinked. “I missed you too.”
His eyes searched mine. “I think I’ve been missing you since I let you go. Since that motel.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My heart felt too full, my throat too tight.
Conrad took a breath. “I know I’m not owed anything. Especially not after the wedding, after how I said everything so late. But I meant it, Belly. Every word. I didn’t come here to mess up your life. I just… needed to see if you’d still let me be part of it.”
I put my mug down next to his.
“I’m not with anyone,” I said softly. “Not since Benito. And even before that, it wasn’t anything real. Not like... this.”
He nodded again. “I know.”
We were quiet again, but this time it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like breathing room.
Then I asked the thing I’d been carrying since I first opened the door this morning.
“Why now?”
He looked down at his hands. “Because I couldn’t do it anymore. The letters. The silence. Knowing you were out here living your life without me in it.”
He paused.
“And maybe I was afraid. That if I waited too long, you’d move on. Really move on. And then it would be too late again.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“It’s not too late,” I said.
He looked up at me.
“I don’t want it to be too late,” I added, more sure this time. “But I also don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what happens now.”
Conrad’s voice was quiet. “We don’t have to know. Not tonight.”
I smiled a little. “That’s convenient. Since I don’t.”
He smiled back, soft and tired and real.
“I just want to be near you,” he said. “Even if we figure it out a day at a time. I don’t want to miss any more versions of you. Not the girl who drinks cappuccinos with cinnamon. Not the one who orders in French without blinking. Not the one who dances with me on cobblestone streets.”
My heart did that fluttery, fragile thing it always did when he talked like this. Like his words knew exactly where to land.
I leaned back into the couch cushions and closed my eyes for a second.
Then I whispered, “You still talk to me like I’m magic.”
Conrad turned slightly toward me. “That’s because you are.”
I opened my eyes. His face was close. Not too close. But close enough that I could see the flicker of light in his eyes, the faint crease in his cheek where his dimple threatened.
“I want this to be different,” I said. “If we try again. I don’t want it to be stolen moments or hiding out from the hard parts. I want it to be real.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
We sat in the silence that followed, not heavy this time, but warm. Buzzing. Like the quiet after a song that still lingers in your chest.
My heart was thudding, slow and certain. I looked at him, really looked at him. The slope of his jaw. The way his lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes. That little crease between his brows like he was still trying to work out what any of this meant.
I leaned in first.
Maybe that’s what surprised me most.
I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t question it. I just leaned forward, cupped the side of his face in my hand, and kissed him.
Soft at first. Careful.
But the second he kissed me back, everything unraveled.
His hand slipped into my hair, the other curving around my waist like he couldn’t get me close enough. My pulse thundered in my ears. It felt like every single version of us—then and now, before and after—was folded into this moment.
When we broke apart, just barely, I whispered, “Is this okay?”
His voice was a breath against my mouth. “Yeah. More than okay.”
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and it felt like the whole world narrowed down to just the two of us. The tea, the couch, the soft lamp light—it all fell away.
We didn’t rush.
There was something sacred in the way we moved—like we both knew this had been waiting for us, quietly, all this time.
Conrad’s lips skimmed down my neck, slow and reverent, and I tipped my head back, eyes fluttering closed. His hands were gentle but certain, like he was memorizing me. Like he’d never forgotten.
I tugged his shirt over his head, and he helped me, our fingers fumbling for a second before we both laughed, quiet and breathless. That laugh—his laugh—settled low in my chest. It undid something in me.
He looked at me then, really looked, and something shifted in his gaze. Wonder, maybe. Or awe. Like I was something rare. Something he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his thumb brushing just beneath my bottom lip.
I kissed him again, more urgently this time, needing him to feel everything I couldn’t say yet. I reached for him, my fingers mapping old territory that felt brand new—his shoulder, the slope of his back, the way his breath caught when I pressed my hips into his.
He groaned low, barely audible, and it lit a fire in me.
We tumbled to the bed in a tangle of limbs and soft gasps, the blanket catching beneath us. He kissed every inch of skin he uncovered, moving like he had all the time in the world. And I let him. I gave in to it, to him. To the way his mouth found mine again and again, like he couldn’t stay away for long.
His hands slid beneath my camisole, lifting it slowly, and I sat up just enough to let him pull it over my head. The look he gave me then—stunned, tender, hungry—made me feel more bare than anything else ever could.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, hand warm on my waist.
I nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”
That was all he needed.
We moved together slowly at first, finding our rhythm like a song we already knew. His hands anchored me. My fingers laced into his hair. There was nothing but breath and heat and the quiet thud of my heart echoing in my ears.
He said my name like it was something precious. Like it was a prayer.
“Isabel,” he whispered, and I broke apart beneath the sound of it.
It wasn’t just sex. It was everything we hadn’t said. Everything we still meant to.
We moved together again, slower this time, holding eye contact like it tethered us. And maybe it did. Because I didn’t feel like I was floating anymore. I felt grounded. Right where I belonged.
When it was over, he pulled me into his chest and pressed a kiss to my forehead. I curled into him without a second thought, our legs tangled beneath the sheets, our breathing slowly evening out.
Neither of us said anything for a while. We didn’t need to.
His fingers traced circles on my back, and I could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
This time, I wasn’t bracing for the goodbye.
Because this—him, here, now—felt like a beginning.
And I wasn’t letting go.
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