Paris did not greet her gently.
It greeted her with a chill in the wind and the scent of wet stone. The gallery's driver had held a placard with her name in neat serif letters. The flat they'd arranged overlooked the Seine—too curated, too pristine. No smudges of life yet.
But as Amelia unzipped her suitcase and unwrapped her brushes, something else opened inside her too.
Possibility.
The gallery was already humming with anticipation. Her name had been whispered in European art circles since the night of her New York solo. That night—that portrait—had cracked something open, not only in her career but in herself.
But it wasn't just about what she'd painted. It was about why.
And that why—his name was Daniel—remained behind, in a Brooklyn apartment filled with coffee mugs, sunlight, and his smell on her pillowcase.
She tried not to think of him constantly.
Tried.
But every time her fingers grazed a canvas, she remembered the weight of his body against hers, the tremble in his voice when he'd told her she wouldn't lose him. And she wondered if even he knew how much of her she'd left behind.
---
A week passed.
Then two.
She painted.
She attended galas and gallery dinners, shook hands with curators, exchanged business cards with art patrons. Her name was on lips that spoke French with velvet smoothness. Her hands ached by nightfall, but her soul?
Her soul was a different story.
Late one night, after an exhausting artist roundtable, she stood on her small balcony, phone glowing in her hand.
1:14 AM.
She hadn't texted him in almost three days. He hadn't either.
She typed.
You awake?
Read. Typing...
Daniel:
Always. Couldn't sleep. You okay?
Her fingers hesitated, then typed quickly before she could retreat.
I miss you. Not the idea of you. Not even the comfort. Just… you.
A pause.
Then:
Daniel:
That's the hardest part. Knowing we're real. And still apart.
She blinked against tears, the city around her moving too fast, too bright.
Come visit.
The message hung there. Dangerous. Exposing.
Finally:
Daniel:
Say the word.
---
Two days later, he was there.
No fanfare. No dramatics. Just Daniel, stepping into the gallery after hours as if he'd walked out of her memory and into her present.
He was soaked from the rain. His hair darker, longer. But his eyes?
Still home.
They didn't speak at first. He crossed the gallery toward her, slow, deliberate. She stood in front of a half-finished canvas—unframed, unfinished, unraveling.
He stopped inches from her.
"You didn't tell me it was this beautiful here," he said, voice quiet.
"I was waiting for you to see it."
She reached for his hand, paint still smudged on her fingers. He lifted her wrist, pressed a kiss to the inside.
"I needed to see you," he murmured.
And with that, the ache between them gave way—not to desperation, but to knowing. The kind of knowing that survived distance. That held space.
That endured.
---