Paris was quiet for once.
No street musicians. No pigeons staging revenge. No mistimed accordion solos in metro tunnels.
Just dusk.
The kind that painted the buildings lavender and made the river shimmer like someone poured champagne into it.
Noa sat on the windowsill of their tiny rented apartment, legs folded, chin resting on her knees. Ren was across the room on the floor, leaning against the bed with a half-empty mug of tea and a completely full head of thoughts.
They hadn't talked about the crêpe incident.
Not directly.
The "I love you"s were still floating somewhere in the air, heavy and fragile and maybe too big to touch just yet.
Instead, they talked about things like:
– Whether clouds in Paris looked fancier
– If pigeons could develop trauma
– Why the shower always squeaked like it was emotionally burdened
Normal things.
Safe things.
But tonight, the silence stretched longer.
And held more.
Ren finally broke it. "What happens when we leave?"
Noa didn't move.
"You mean... when we go back to Japan?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Work. Noise. Reality."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then said, "We pretend none of this happened."
Ren's eyes flicked up.
She smirked faintly. "I'm kidding."
Pause.
"Kind of."
He sighed. "That's the problem, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"We're always halfway between kidding and meaning it."
Noa turned to face him more fully.
"Ren... I don't know what we are."
"I do."
He said it quietly, like if he spoke too loud the truth might crack open.
Noa looked down. "We've never dated. Never defined anything. Just a series of almosts and accidents."
"Yeah. And it's exhausting."
She blinked.
"That's why it's easier to keep joking," he added.
"Because if we laugh enough, maybe it won't matter?"
He nodded.
Noa stood from the window, walked over, and sat beside him on the floor.
They didn't touch.
Not yet.
"I want this," she said, barely above a whisper.
Ren looked at her.
"I don't know what it means. I don't know if I'll ruin it. But I don't want to go back to pretending I don't think about you every time we're apart."
His shoulders slumped slightly—like relief and fear were both weighing him down.
"Same," he said.
Then:
"I've loved you through five cities and two failed umbrellas."
She smiled, eyes glossy. "And one hotel bed."
"And a pigeon attack."
Noa wiped her cheek, laughing through it.
He reached for her hand.
This time, she let him.
Fingers laced, no hesitation.
They sat like that for a long time.
Not needing to say anything else.
Because they'd finally said enough.
—
Later, when they crawled into bed—this time without a pillow wall—Noa asked quietly, "Do you think Paris changed us?"
Ren thought for a second.
Then replied, "No. I think it just held up a mirror."
"And?"
"And we finally looked in it."
She smiled.
Rolled toward him.
And for once, there were no jokes.
Just two people, finally letting go of the almosts.
And holding on for real.