Paris still wore the scent of last night's rain. A light mist clung to the window glass as Aurélie stood silently, watching Elio pour two cups of coffee in their little kitchen. His hands moved with habitual ease, but his eyes… they held something quieter. Something unsaid.
Elio: "So… you're really going?"
His voice broke the stillness, soft but impossible to ignore. He stirred his coffee, though he hadn't added any sugar. The sound of the spoon tapping the porcelain felt louder than it should have.
Aurélie: "It's six months, Elio. Just six. The fellowship is rare. A chance to finish my novel with full editorial support—at one of the best houses in New York."
She tried to sound steady. But even she could hear the slight tremble at the edge of her words.
Elio: "I know."
He nodded slowly, eyes on his cup, not on her.
"But it's still far."
Aurélie: "I didn't ask for this to happen now."
Elio: "I know that too."
Silence fell between them, thick with everything they didn't want to say out loud.
Aurélie walked toward the small bookshelf by the window. Their memories were everywhere—scribbled notes, marked pages, a pressed lavender flower between two novels.
Aurélie: "What happens to us?"
Elio: "What do you mean?"
Aurélie: "This… whatever this is. It wasn't supposed to be real, remember?"
Elio: "But it became real."
He finally looked at her then, eyes unguarded.
Elio: "Somewhere between pretending and late-night ramen, between fake arguments and your sleepy voice—I stopped acting."
Aurélie's breath hitched.
Aurélie: "I did too."
The words barely escaped her lips, but they felt heavier than anything she'd said in months.
Elio stepped closer, their coffees long forgotten on the counter.
Elio: "Then let's not let a plane ride undo all of it."
Aurélie: "Are we strong enough for that?"
Elio: "We won't know unless we try."
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached for his hand. Fingers intertwined. No promises. Just presence.
---
The morning Aurélie flew to New York, Elio walked with her to the gate, stopping just before security.
Aurélie: "I'm scared."
Elio: "Me too."
Aurélie: "Not just of leaving. I'm scared of change."
Elio: "Then hold on to the parts of us that don't change."
He kissed her forehead—soft, lingering, like it might have to last a while.
Elio: "Write. Be brilliant. I'll be here."
She smiled with wet eyes.
Aurélie: "And you… don't disappear into your studio. Go outside. Talk to people."
Elio: "That's harder than waiting for you."
They laughed. And then, she walked away.
---
Paris without Aurélie was quieter. Elio didn't notice it at first. But the silence began creeping into his mornings. Her empty mug, the quiet piano keys untouched. He found himself pausing in conversations, forgetting what he was saying, like part of his mind had flown with her.
He tried. He really did.
He painted. Took new commissions. Visited galleries. But at night, when the city dimmed, he often found himself staring at their old texts, rereading her voice.
Meanwhile, Aurélie adjusted to the rhythm of New York. The city buzzed louder than Paris ever did. Her days were filled with workshops, meetings, and manuscript revisions. She walked streets that felt foreign yet inspiring.
But at night…
She found herself wishing she could hear Elio's sarcasm.
Or watch him paint barefoot with coffee in hand.
Or even argue over which movie to watch.
Time passed.
Calls became texts.
Texts became voice notes.
And then… silence.
Not intentional.
Just busy.
---
One month later.
Aurélie stared at her phone. No new messages. No missed calls.
She wanted to reach out. She even typed:
> "I miss you."
Then deleted it.
On the other side of the world, Elio sat in a café, sketching a woman that vaguely resembled her.
Barista: "Is she someone special?"
He paused.
Elio: "She's someone I'm trying not to forget."
---
That night, Aurélie called.
No intro. No small talk.
Aurélie: "Are we still… us?"
Silence.
Then Elio replied, voice rough with sleep—and something deeper.
Elio: "We never stopped being us. We just hit pause."
Aurélie: "Then let's press play again."