I just let myself look at her—at who she was becoming, at the way she stood inside her own work—and felt something fierce and steady settle in my bones. Whoever took this picture of herunderstoodher and dear god I was jealous as hell of that person.
I saved the photo.
Not to my main gallery—never there—but to a private folder I kept buried two layers down on my phone. It was filled with Rachel. Candid snaps she’d sent me. A couple of blurry selfiesof the two of us, pressed together and laughing, taken on nights that felt like they would last forever. A picture of her asleep on my shoulder on a flight once, hair in her face, mouth soft with trust.
I opened the folder and slid the new image into place.
She fit there.
She always did.
God, I missed her.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. In a quiet, persistent way that threaded itself through everything I did. I missed her voice when she was half-awake. The sharpness of her tongue when she eviscerated one of my arguments. The way she got excited about the weirdest details.
The way she made space feel warmer just by being in it. But sheneededParis.
She needed the work, the light, the hunger of becoming someone new. She needed the version of herself she was finding there.
And I needed to not be the man who stood in her way.
Even if it meant loving her from three thousand miles away.
I typed back, fingers slow and careful.
Sexy is absolutely the word I could use, but I prefer beautiful. You are.
Refusing to overthink it, I sent the message, then set the phone down and went to shower, letting the hot water pound the day out of my shoulders and the bar out of my hair. It didn’t erase the ache, but it dulled the edges enough to breathe.
Afterward, I toweled off, pulled on a clean T-shirt and pajama pants, and stood for a moment in the middle of my bedroom, unsure what to do with the rest of the night. Thetelevision stayed dark. There was nothing I really wanted to watch.
So, I returned to the living room and grabbed my briefcase instead.
Files, contracts, notes for London—paper and ink and other people’s problems. Things I could control. I settled into the chair by the window and began to read, city lights cutting across the pages in pale lines, Rachel’s face still lingering somewhere behind my eyes.
There wasn’t much else to do right now.
But that was okay.
Waiting, I was learning, was its own kind of work.
From Rachel’s Diary:
I almost forgot to write tonight.
That feels like a bad sign.
When I started this notebook, it was supposed to keep me honest. A place where I could make sense of the noise. Once upon a time it was the only place I could just… be me.
Now I’m writing because I feel guilty when I don’t.
Paris still feels unreal sometimes. Not in the romantic way people imagine. More like how did this become my life? I spend most days chasing assignments, following René across the city, trying to learn how he sees things before he even lifts the camera.
Dominic and I are playing phone tag—or I guess message tag. He said I sound good in my clips. Settled. I liked hearing that more than I should have.
One of his last messages caught me offguard.
Birth control.
