I even liked that I left my phone and my camera behind tonight without panicking. That feels significant, though I’m not ready to unpack why.
Work is still relentless, but it’s a good kind of relentless. René is pushing harder, watching more, saying less. I think that means I’m doing something right, which is both gratifying and terrifying. The Sorbonne starting soon doesn’t help with the terrifying part. Classes, critiques, deadlines, an end-of-year show—sometimes it feels like I’ve agreed to live three lives at once and I haven’t figured out which one gets priority yet.
Time really is the problem now.
There was a model today. The one from the designer’s shop. I still don’t know her name, which feels intentional somehow, like the universe is telling me not to grab onto things just because they’re beautiful. She was—impossible. Not in a flashy way. In a quiet, contained way. Like she knew exactly who she was and didn’t need anyone else to confirm it.
She noticed me.
That’s sticking with me more than it should.
And then—because the universe apparently enjoys emotional whiplash—Coop called.
Apparently, the boys are plotting to propose.
All of them.
I could have seen that coming a mile away. To be fair, I had seen it. But hearing him say it out loud was still wild. Four grown men coordinating a proposal like it’s a military operation. When he started explaining it—timing, location, how they were tryingto account for touring schedules and Frankie’s school stress and, yes, all the crap with her mother—I just sat there, kind of stunned, listening to him lay it all out like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When he finally asked me what I thought, I said the only honest thing I could.
“It sounds overwhelming and fantastic and utterly you guys.”
He laughed and said that was exactly what he’d hoped I’d say.
They want to propose before senior year. When she’s ready, he said. Not because of tradition. Not because of pressure. Because Frankie deserves to have that moment without the weight of everything else crashing down on it.
That told me more than anything else they said.
They’re putting her first.
All four of those assholes.
I don’t know why that hit me as hard as it did. Maybe because it’s proof that love can be real and fulfilling without being limiting. That choosing someone doesn’t have to mean shrinking yourself. That growth is possible, if everyone involved actually does the work.
Frankie is going to cry. Ugly cry. There will be snot. Coop is counting on it.
I miss her. I miss all of them. But I don’t feel pulled backward tonight—just… connected. Like I’m allowed to build something here without betraying where I came from.
Paris is home in a way I didn’t expect.
I don’t know what that means yet.
But I’m starting to trust that I’ll figure it out.
Chapter
Eleven
RACHEL
Morning came gray and wet, the flattened light a smear behind low clouds before they swallowed it whole.
The light eased in through the windows instead of crashing through them. Rain blurred the edges of the city, pressing sound downward until only traffic remained, distant and subdued. Time seemed almost suspended.
I lay still for a moment, wrapped in the quiet the building provided, its thick walls holding the world at bay.
My room was dim and familiar in the best way. The walls were no longer bare—prints had gone up gradually, one or two at a time. My shots, mostly. Street corners caught at the wrong moment. A pair of hands mid-gesture. Light doing something unexpected on stone. A few were framed properly, others taped because I couldn’t decide if they worked in the space.
