Chapter 30: What We Choose
Paris breathed differently the day Lucas was supposed to arrive.
Emma woke before sunrise, her heart an erratic drumbeat in her chest. For weeks, she had dreamed of this reunion—Lucas's face emerging from the Charles de Gaulle crowd, their hands finding each other like magnets. But now that it was real, her nerves jittered like paintbrushes dipped in caffeine.
Would he still see her the same way?
Would she still fit into his arms like she used to?
She stood in front of her mirror, adjusting her scarf for the fifth time. It didn't matter how much she dressed up; there was no concealing the anxiety behind her eyes.
---
At the airport terminal, the arrivals board blinked with unspoken promises.
She waited, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her leather satchel. Her sketchbook peeked out, pages warped from months of emotion. Around her, couples reunited with tears and laughter, families waved frantically, and someone held a bouquet of wilting tulips.
And then—there he was.
Lucas.
Tall. Tousled. Slightly jetlagged. Dressed in the same old hoodie he used to wear when they'd binge-watch crime documentaries and steal popcorn from each other's bowls.
He spotted her almost instantly.
His face broke into that boyish grin that always made her knees feel unreliable.
Emma didn't move at first. Neither did he.
But then she took one step forward—and he met her the rest of the way.
They collided in a hug that was both clumsy and devastatingly perfect. Arms locked, breaths tangled. She clung to him like gravity had finally come home.
"I can't believe you're here," she whispered into his shoulder.
"I told you I would be."
---
They took the train back to Montmartre. Lucas pressed his forehead to the window, watching the city blur past like brushstrokes in a moving painting.
"So… this is where you've been becoming," he said softly.
Emma smiled. "Something like that."
They walked the narrow streets hand-in-hand, speaking in half-sentences, catching up on things that couldn't be texted. The subtle details. How her favorite café had a new barista who always got her name wrong. How he'd started running in the mornings to clear his head. How much they had changed—without ever fully letting go of each other.
---
That evening, Julien arrived at the gallery early.
He wasn't supposed to be part of the setup crew, but he came anyway—quietly arranging chairs, adjusting the lights. His hands were steady, but there was a storm inside him.
Emma had made her choice. And tonight, the world would see it.
When she entered with Lucas beside her, Julien looked up—his expression unreadable. His eyes lingered on the way Lucas rested a protective hand on her lower back.
"Julien," Emma said, her voice a careful balance of warmth and awkwardness.
He nodded at her. "You look ready."
Lucas stepped forward, polite but firm. "Julien, right? Thanks for helping her."
Julien extended his hand. "Lucas. I've heard a lot."
The handshake between them was short. Measured.
Julien's eyes met Emma's one last time. "Go knock them out," he said with a quiet smile, then slipped away into the crowd.
---
The gallery buzzed with chatter.
The white walls displayed Emma's collection—pieces born of longing, memory, and growth. Her work was raw but elegant, shadows melted into light, colors layered like confessions. There were paintings of solitude, of bridges blurred by rain, of hands reaching but not quite touching.
One piece stood alone near the back. Her final addition.
Lucas stared at it for a long time.
It was the silhouette of two figures. One cast in gold leaf—bold, radiant, impossible to ignore. The other, softer, painted in watercolor blues and lilacs. They didn't face each other. But they leaned toward one another, pulled together by something deeper than gravity.
He turned to Emma. "Is this us?"
She nodded. "It's called The Space Between Us."
He whispered, "I hate that there ever was one."
Emma's heart cracked open, right there in the gallery. "But we're here now."
He cupped her cheek, gently, reverently. "I don't want to be anywhere else."
---
As the night wore on, guests clinked glasses and complimented her work. Critics murmured phrases like "unexpected nuance" and "delicate emotional architecture." Even the grizzled instructor who had once called her work "hesitant" now approached with a rare smile.
"You're a real artist now," he said. "Not just painting what you see—but what you feel."
Emma blinked fast to keep her emotions from flooding over. "Thank you."
But it wasn't the compliments that made the night unforgettable.
It was Lucas, leaning in close between conversations to whisper how proud he was. How seeing her art made him fall in love with her all over again.
---
After the gallery closed, they walked along the Seine.
The city shimmered in quiet gold. Paris wasn't loud at night—it murmured. Like a lover tracing words against your skin.
Lucas stopped beneath a bridge and pulled her in.
"I need to say this," he said.
Emma looked up at him, her breath catching.
"I know I messed up. I pulled away. I let stress win. But that distance—it almost broke me. I don't want to live in separate worlds again. I don't care about MIT or deadlines or any of it if it means losing you."
She placed a hand on his chest. "You didn't lose me. I was just learning how to live without depending on someone else to keep me steady."
His forehead touched hers. "So… what are we now?"
Emma smiled softly. "We're two whole people. Choosing each other."
Then she kissed him.
Not like the first kiss. Not like a goodbye kiss.
But like a promise.
---
Days passed. Paris faded into its own kind of memory.
Lucas stayed until the end of the week, exploring every corner of her new world. They danced to street violins, shared kisses on balconies, made promises beneath the moon. There was no need to define everything right away. Love, they had learned, didn't need a label—it needed intention.
When the time came for him to fly back, they didn't fall apart.
Because they had plans now. Real ones.
Not just maybe-somedays.
---
Two weeks later, Emma sat at her windowsill, watching the sky turn lavender.
A parcel arrived from Boston.
Inside was a sketchbook. The cover read: "For Emma. A place for what comes next."
Tucked into the first page was a plane ticket.
And a note:
> I'll wait for you. But I hope you won't make me wait too long.
— Lucas
Emma held the ticket in her hand, heart thudding.
She had choices now.
But one thing was clear:
Love wasn't a place.
It was a person.
And she was finally ready to go home.