Chapter 11
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.
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 stopped being 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.
A miss you tucked 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 small breath 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 instrument weep—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.”
A quiet laugh slipped out. “I lingered on the stairs way longer than I meant to and finished the coffee I’d picked up. They’re really, really good. The kind of good that makes me want to tell them to start a YouTube channel and get discovered so they can make a million bucks. You know?”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Apparently, they’re joining us tonight for what Alix has already dubbed the soup-and-bread support group. Very Parisian. Very end-of-day and relaxed. No pressure to be anything other than tired and hungry.”
A pause.
“It’s strange—in a good way. The building feels… full. Everyone here is doing something challenging for them and they’re choosing to do it here—like me.”
I paused, choosing my next words carefully.
“Work is good. Hard, like I said. Really good. I’m learning a lot. I wish you could see some of the places I’ve been shooting—you’d like them.” A beat. “I could send you some, if you want. I know you had court this week, so I didn’t want to blow you up with messages.”
Pausing the message there, I chewed my lower lip. Then just said fuck it. “Anyway. I hope you’re sleeping. I miss you too and I’ll message you later and let you know how the day went.”
I sent it before I could overthink it. Then I set the phone face down and didn’t pick it up again. The truth was, I missed him too damn much. If I let myself linger on that, I might start to regret some of my choices.
Orientation was exactly as overwhelming as promised. I loved it. The Sorbonne buzzed with a particular kind of energy—ambition layered over nerves, talent brushing up against expectation. There were schedules to collect, requirements to initial, studios to locate.
I spotted Mischa Condre across the room immediately—tall, sharp-eyed, already mid-critique with someone who looked like they might cry or ascend, possibly both.
My heart fluttered imagining the moment that might be me.
Right, the intimidation I’d mentioned in my message to Dominic had come back to haunt me.
Shifting gears, I debated being bold and introducing myself or waiting for our first class. If she was still there when I finished the line I was in, I’d head right to her. I caught sight of Alia Gagnon as the crowd shifted.
She wasn’t talking to anyone specifically, if anything she was watching and seemingly taking notes. Our gazes collided briefly, and instead of jerking away like I hadn’t been staring, I lifted my chin in greeting. To my delight, she inclined her head to me then wrote something—hopefully good—down.
I loved them both instantly.
This wasn’t theoretical anymore. This wasn’t a dream deferred until I was ready. I was here and it was happening. I was living in Paris, chasing my dreams at full throttle.
By the time orientation wrapped, my bag was heavier with syllabi and my brain felt pleasantly overloaded. I checked my calendar again, adjusted a few things, and headed straight to a shoot René had texted me about halfway through the closing remarks.
No hesitation.
Thankfully, the metro in Paris meant I could hoof it almost anywhere with little trouble, if I wanted to leave the central part of the city, then I just shifted the transpo. The rain had also slowed to the occasional sprinkle, but the gray of the clouds lingered.
As I arrived, someone else was stepping out. She stepped out of the building just as I reached the door, the muted light where the sun tried to shine through the clouds caught briefly in her hair before the world seemed to rearrange itself around her.
The model.
My beautiful disruption.
She wore jeans this time, a loose sweater, her hair pulled back in a low knot that emphasized the clean lines of her face. No dramatic lighting. No staging. Just her, real and unguarded for once.
She smiled when she saw me—not wide or politely performative. It was a real smile, reflecting the recognition flickering in her eyes before she slid on her sunglasses.
“Busy day?” she asked, that warm Australian accent smoothing the edges of the words.
“Always,” I replied, returning the smile. “You?”
She shrugged lightly. “Just finished.”
There was a beat—unhurried, comfortable. A passing moment that could have stretched into something else if either of us had tried.
Neither of us did.
“Good to see you again,” she said.
“You too.”
And then she was gone, disappearing down the steps with the same quiet confidence she carried everywhere.
I realized as I went inside that I still didn’t know her name. Giving myself a little shake, I made a mental note to at least introduce myself next time.
The shoot itself demanded my full attention, and I gave it gladly. I moved through the space with ease now, setting up where I was needed, anticipating adjustments before they were asked for. René watched from a distance, said nothing, and that silence felt earned instead of ominous.
At one point, as I packed up, he glanced at me and said, “You are learning to arrive already focused.” It might not have been praise, but damn it was close.
By the time I made it home that evening, the light was fading and the building smelled faintly of bread and something simmering. The door on the first floor was open and Jules flashed me a grin.
“We went to get the bread and soup,” he said. “Come down when you’re ready to eat.”
“Sounds good. Just going to put my stuff up and change.” I lifted a wave to Quan who appeared behind Jules.
“Take your time,” he said, his grin as easy as Jules’. “David’s not here, he was going to stop at a patisserie.”
My mouth watered at the idea. “I’ll bring the wine down!” They’d insisted on the food, so I’d taken on the wine. I had a few bottles—some I’d purchased, others that had been gifts.
They waved me off and I smiled to myself as I climbed the stairs, feeling that same quiet sense of belonging settle in again.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It had a few times today, but I hadn’t checked. Told myself to wait until later when I could give them my full attention.
Whatever Dominic had said when he woke up would still be there in an hour. Or two. Or tomorrow. For now, I unlocked my door, set my bag down, and let the quiet welcome me back.
Balance, I was learning, wasn’t about standing still—it was about setting boundaries for yourself as much as for others. I locked the door and went to change. I was looking forward to tonight.