"Run! The door's closing!"
Noa sprinted toward the metro car like it was a scene from a spy movie.
Ren, holding two baguettes and one very crumpled map, shouted after her, "Hold the door!"
The metro beeped once. Twice.
Then hissed shut—
Right in Ren's face.
Inside, Noa looked back in horror.
Outside, Ren stood frozen, baguettes like weapons of betrayal in both hands.
The train pulled away slowly.
Noa's face disappeared behind grimy glass.
Ren exhaled.
Loudly.
And began swearing in three languages, none of them useful.
—
Meanwhile, Noa was now on a train she didn't want to be on, going to a place she didn't recognize, without internet, and without the one person she *unfortunately* had started to enjoy being confused with.
She checked her phone: 4% battery. Of course.
Next stop: something French she couldn't pronounce.
She sighed, rested her forehead on the pole, and muttered, "Paris is a scam."
—
Ten minutes later, Ren arrived at the wrong station.
Because of course he did.
In a burst of impulse (and baguette fury), he'd jumped on the next train, only to realize he had no idea where she was headed.
Now he stood in a dim metro corridor with flickering lights, outdated posters of Dior perfume, and one crying tourist mom arguing with her child in Russian.
He sat on a cold bench.
Waited.
And texted her:
**REN:** where are you
**REN:** I have both baguettes
**REN:** u looked scared. it was funny but also concerning
**REN:** reply before I start eating your half
No reply.
Ren sighed.
Then looked up—and froze.
Across the station wall, printed in gold on black, was a giant ad:
**"MAISON LOUIS VUITTON – Atelier de Savoir-Faire"**
A one-day open exhibition of their historic **Malletier workshop**, just ten minutes from the station.
Underneath: *by appointment only.*
He smiled.
"Now *that* sounds chaotic."
—
Twenty minutes and one well-faked reservation later (thank you, Google Translate), Noa and Ren stood side by side in a glass atrium surrounded by Paris' richest fabrics and most intimidating security guards.
"I can't believe you dragged me here," Noa whispered, eyeing a mannequin wearing a coat that cost more than her entire apartment.
"You love fashion."
"I love *pretending* I understand fashion. These people live it. Like—breathe in, exhale silk."
A poised French assistant approached them.
"Bienvenue. Welcome to Maison Malletier. May I help you?"
Ren bowed slightly. "Bonjour. We're… interns. From Japan."
The woman smiled, slightly confused but too polite to ask follow-ups.
"Of course. The atelier is this way."
—
Inside, the showroom looked like a spaceship made of leather and centuries-old secrets.
Craftsmen worked silently, hands moving with surgical precision—cutting, folding, pressing.
Noa leaned in toward Ren. "That guy is sewing a handbag like he's defusing a bomb."
Ren whispered back, "Honestly, same energy."
Then something strange happened.
As they walked deeper into the workshop, past decades of handmade trunks and museum-level embroidery—
—Noa slowed down.
Stopped in front of a display showing an antique Louis Vuitton travel case from the 1800s. Inside it: a mirror, books, tea set, ink and quill.
"A life in a box," she murmured.
Ren looked at her.
"Imagine," she said, voice soft. "People used to live out of this. Move across countries. Start new lives. Carry everything that mattered."
He watched her for a moment.
"You okay?"
She nodded.
Then shook her head.
"I thought coming here would be… cool, you know? Paris. Fashion. Romance. Like we'd stumble into beauty."
She looked around the pristine atelier.
"But all I feel is… like I don't belong."
Ren didn't say anything right away.
Instead, he picked up the event brochure and folded it into a terrible paper crane.
Then offered it to her.
"Now *no one* belongs here."
She took it.
Smiled faintly.
"Thanks."
—
They walked out half an hour later, pockets empty, minds a little fuller.
The sky outside was cloudy again.
Typical.
Noa wrapped her scarf tighter. "You didn't have to follow me, by the way."
"I didn't."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I ran," he corrected. "With great fear and baguettes."
She laughed.
"Wasn't romantic," she said.
"Nope."
"No string quartet?"
"Nope."
"No kiss by the Seine?"
"Just sweat, missed metros, and rich people who smelled like oak."
They walked slowly.
Side by side.
"You know what," Noa said, "maybe Paris isn't about falling in love."
Ren glanced sideways. "No?"
"Maybe it's just about realizing who you *actually want* next to you when things go wrong."
A beat.
Then Ren handed her the less-squashed of the two baguettes.
"Here. For surviving the underground."
Noa tore a piece off.
Ate it.
Chewed thoughtfully.
"This tastes like disappointment."
"Perfect for Paris, then."
They kept walking.