44. The SMS
Samantha
Since Alexander’s text asking me not to block him, I’ve been receiving one message a day.
Simple. Never intrusive. Just to let me know he’s thinking of me.
Alexander: At lunchtime today, I saw a mother and her little boy walking down the street.
The child tripped and fell. The mother stepped forward to help him, then, seeing that he wasn’t badly hurt, she stopped herself and simply said, ‘You’re okay.
’ He got back up without making a fuss, and they went on their way. That moment really moved me.
The next day, as I paint by the window watching the snow fall, my phone vibrates.
Alexander: I left my office for lunch. I’m learning to let go. I’m writing to you from Montmartre. I wish so much that I were watching the snow fall with you.
I don’t reply to any of the messages.
I don’t know what to think.
Will he be able to keep this up in the long run? Can people really change?
My brush glides over the paper, creating gradients of gray and blue.
Yes, people can change.
With the right help. With the support of the right people.
I changed, thanks to Emelyne and Mara.
They helped me detach myself from my toxic family, to build a family of the heart. Today, I no longer seek my parents’ validation. Their attitude still hurts, of course, but with time, I’ll learn not to let it affect me anymore.
Suddenly, my phone rings.
Cédric Levasseur.
My heart leaps. I answer immediately and put the call on speaker. I can’t stop painting—not now, not when the wash is still wet. The slightest interruption would create an ugly stain.
“All??”
“Hello, Samantha,” the warm voice of the gallery owner greets me. “I have very good news! We’ve sold one of your pieces!”
My brush nearly slips from my fingers.
“You’re kidding! I can’t believe it! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re the best.”
“This success is due to your talent,” he corrects me with a laugh in his voice. “I’ll transfer your earnings by the end of the week. And you’ll need to bring me new pieces very soon!”
“Yes, of course. I’ll stop by next week. Thank you again!”
I hang up. Then I rush into Emelyne’s bedroom. I barge in without knocking and let my joy explode.
“You are never going to believe this! I sold my first painting!”
“That’s amazing!” she exclaims, getting up to wrap me in a hug. “I knew you’d make it! Which one did you sell?”
“Uh… I didn’t ask.”
She looks at me, then bursts out laughing.
“You really are an artist, no doubt about it!”
Then her brows knit together.
“Why are you holding a paintbrush covered in paint?”
“Shit, my gradient!”
I sprint back into the living room.
“No, no, no. Please, stay wet.”
I stare at my watercolor. The wash has started to dry. I try to extend the gradient, but it’s too late.
“Damn it. It set.”
Emelyne, who followed me, studies my work over my shoulder.
“Don’t panic. It’s fine. It actually adds more strength to the piece. Look—this edge creates movement, tension. It’s even better.”
I contemplate the painting, unconvinced.
“You think?”
“I’m sure,” she says, kissing my temple.
I smile despite myself.
“Thank you. How do you always know exactly how to cheer me up? You know you’re my favorite cow, right?”
“Huh? What?! What are you talking about?” Emelyne asks, laughing.
“Cows have best friends,” I reply very seriously. “They get stressed if they’re separated from their favorite companions. It’s scientifically proven.”
Emelyne cracks up.
“I bet that’s another one of Alexander’s fun facts.”
An amused smile curves my lips.
“You’re falling for his texts,” she tells me.
It’s true, I don’t deny it. But a relationship isn’t measured solely by the complicity of happy moments.
Shared laughter, light messages, small gestures, sex… all of that matters, of course. Those are the moments that make you want to get closer, to grow attached.
We lived them. For a few weeks.
And maybe that’s precisely why the fall was more painful.
Because I know now that this isn’t where everything is decided.
The true strength of a bond reveals itself elsewhere. When goals start to diverge. When everyday life gets in the way. When choices have to be made. When things become difficult.
And the conclusion is bitter: we weren’t strong enough. We failed before we had even truly begun.
Thinking about it, I know I share some of the responsibility. We should have been more present for each other. Creating distance while we were both going through a difficult time was the worst idea possible. That was precisely when we should have drawn closer.
Silence gave way to doubt. And doubt turned into infected wounds.
So I take these messages for what they are: a fragile link.
Not a promise.
Not a future mapped out in advance.
Just a way of not disappearing completely from each other’s lives.
And for now, that’s enough for me.