There were photos of Frankie too, tucked into the spaces between my work. One of her laughing, head thrown back, taken years ago when neither of us were trying so hard to be brave. Another of all of us at graduation—me, Frankie, and the guys packed too close together, arms slung wherever they could reach. I liked that one because I could see the moment it stoppedbeing effort for them. The trying. Somewhere along the way, it had just… become real. For them. For me too.
My bed was a low, wide sprawl of gray—deep slate sheets that felt cool even in sleep—but covering it all was the quilt my mother had made. Purple, rich and uneven in places, the stitches slightly imperfect if you looked closely. I’d helped cut the fabric years ago, spread out across the living room floor, my hands too clumsy then to imagine they’d one day belong to this version of me. There was history in it. Time. Proof that something could take years to finish and still be worth keeping close.
Rain traced slow lines down the window. The room smelled faintly of lemon, wood polish, and the wisteria in my shampoo. Below all of those were the faint scents of detergent, old paper, and the stone that made up the bones of the building. For a few more seconds, I let myself stay there—warm, curled up comfortably—before the day began asking things of me again.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Speaking of the day asking me things. I put my phone on DND overnight. A couple of numbers were allowed to ring through, but only a couple. They would only call for an emergency.
When the DND went off in the morning, it would vibrate to let me know I had new messages. I didn’t pick it up right away. I didn’t have to. I knew who it was.
Dominic always sent messages while I slept. The time difference meant it was evening for him when it was night for me. He never sent anything dramatic. Just updates. A picture of his coffee. A stupid joke about airport food. Amiss youtucked casually into the middle. He always made sure to let me know that he missed me. That he cared.
He’d be asleep now.
That mattered.
Answering him while he slept let me cheat—but only a little. I didn’t have to worry about him pulling me into conversation.Not that it would be that challenging for him. Kind, even. I could respond, giving him pieces of my day and “talk” to him and still keep him at a distance. I didn’t want to hurt him. The idea of it sat heavy in my chest.
Because the truth—one I still wasn’t saying out loud—was that a part of me was absolutely crazy about him. I just wasn’t ready for what he wanted from me.
I typed a reply and deleted it. Tried again.
Me:
Up early—Sorbonne orientation today. It’s already crazy in the best way.
That felt safe. Informative. True.
I added another.
Me:
René decided this week would be the one where my time became a theoretical exercise. I think he enjoys watching me schedule myself into oblivion.
I smiled despite myself and set the phone down, then picked it back up almost immediately.
The words kept coming.
I sighed and hit the microphone instead.
“Hey,” I said quietly, keeping my voice low in the stillness of the apartment. “I realized I was about to write you a novel, so this is easier.”
I leaned back against my pillow, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
“Orientation today—lots of forms, lots of people pretending they’re not intimidated. Am I one of them? Probably.” That honesty felt raw, but Dominic would get it. “I think I’m excited? Or maybe that’s terror. Hard to tell the difference lately.” A smallbreath of laughter escaped me. “With some of the assignments René has given me, I’m getting over any qualms I might’ve had about being too loud or intrusive.”
I paused for a beat, smiling wryly.
“Yeah, I know, I can hear you snorting. I’m not the shy type, but I wasn’t sure I had it in me to just step into these moments of real people’s lives so I could catch a thought, a feeling—” I exhaled slowly. “See? Novel. Anyway…”
“There are new neighbors in my building. They’re Sorbonne too, which feels… grounding, actually. Jules and Alix are on the first floor.”
I shifted slightly against the pillows, listening to the rain against the window.
“The second floor filled up too. Two guys—musicians. One plays cello, the other violin. Thank god for thick walls, but a couple nights after they moved in, I heard them practicing.”
I smiled again, softer this time. “David’s the violinist. I swear he makes that instrumentweep—and no, the fact that he almost made me cry has nothing to do with it.”
I shifted slightly, staring at the ceiling. “Quan and his cello, though… that’s something else entirely. Just—something else. I could listen to them all day.”
