Then I turned toward the métro.
The entrance swallowed sound and light in equal measure, the familiar descent into heat and motion and the low, constant hum of Paris underground. I was halfway down the stairs when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I didn’t need to look to know who it was.
But I did anyway.
Dominic:
Miss me yet?
I exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh or might’ve been a warning to myself.
Of course he’d know when to appear. Right when my head was full. Right when my hands still felt occupied. Right when I didn’t have room for him and somehow made it anyway.
I didn’t answer.
The train roared into the station, wind tugging at my hair, and I slipped the phone back into my pocket like it hadn’t changed the air around me at all.
But it had and we both knew it.
Because yes, dammit, I missed him.
From Rachel’s Diary:
I’m learning how to sit still without feeling like I’m wasting time.
Paris is loud when it wants to be, but the quiet here feels intentional. Like it’s something you earn by paying attention. I’m starting to hear it—the pause between footsteps, the breath before a song starts, the way a room settles once everyone stops trying so hard.
Went to the café René pointed out. Sunday jazz. No stage. No announcements. Just music sliding into the afternoon like it belonged there all along. I didn’t take photos. I didn’t write notes. I just listened.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket and ruined it for half a second. Dom. Of course. Even across an ocean, he knows when I’m quiet enough to hear myself.
I didn’t answer. The music kept playing.
Turns out listening is a skill.
So is choosing what not to respond to.
Chapter
Five
RACHEL
Time had begun to stretch strangely since my first week with René. Days blurred into long, sharp-edged streaks of walking, watching, photographing, learning without pause. Somewhere along the way, exhaustion stopped feeling like something to survive and started feeling like a currency I was earning.
René had paired me with other photographers at the Daily for ten days straight. I’d shadowed, assisted, held lights, carried gear, kept my mouth shut unless spoken to. I learned to read people before they spoke. I learned to move without announcing myself. I learned to anticipate the chaos of a newsroom and not flinch when the energy turned sharp and chaotic.
And then, just when I thought I might be settling into some rhythm, René pulled me back into the streets, away from cameras and deadlines, into what he calledreal lessons. His idea of “real” usually involved corners of Paris that felt like secrets waiting to be discovered, or artisans quietly bending craft into shapes I’d never even considered.
I was tired. My shoulders ached. My camera felt like an extension of my own body. And I loved every second of it.
It was Thursday when it happened. I’d been following René through the cobblestone streets of the 3rd arrondissement, his pace brisk, eyes scanning everything. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile, didn’t ask questions. I moved in the rhythm he set, camera ready, brain ticking.
We paused outside a tiny, sun-warmed café tucked between a bookstore and a fabric shop. René tilted his head toward the door. “Sit,” he said, almost conversationally, which in René-speak meant:pay attention and do not speak unless absolutely necessary.
I had barely crossed the threshold when my phone buzzed. The name made my chest seize.
