The fog swallowed Prague whole. Juno stepped off the train into air thick as cotton, her boots echoing against wet cobblestones. She pulled her scarf tighter, watching her breath join the mist that clung to everything—streetlamps, church spires, the faces of strangers who emerged and vanished like thoughts.
She'd chosen Prague because it sounded mysterious. Now, threading through streets that twisted without warning, she realized mysterious was just another word for lost.
The hostel crouched between ancient buildings like a secret. Inside, mismatched furniture hugged radiators, and walls displayed postcards from every continent. A record player spun something melancholy in the corner.
Juno signed the register, accepting her key from a pierced clerk who barely looked up. She shouldered her pack and turned toward the stairs—then stopped.
Leo sat in the corner armchair, sketchbook balanced on his knee, pencil moving in slow strokes. He hadn't noticed her yet.
Her chest tightened. Of course. Of course he'd be here, in this city made for wanderers and the emotionally displaced.
"Didn't think Prague would be haunted," she said.
Leo's pencil stilled. He looked up, those brown eyes widening slightly before his expression settled into something careful.
"Some cities are made for ghosts."
They found themselves walking together without deciding to. The streets demanded companionship—too winding, too full of shadows for solitude. Tourists clustered around Gothic spires and beer halls, but Juno and Leo moved through gaps in the crowds, maintaining the arm's length distance they'd perfected.
"Lucie used to love this city," Leo said suddenly.
The name hit Juno like cold air. He never mentioned his ex. Not once in all their conversations, all their almost-moments.
"You never talk about her."
"That was the problem." Leo lit a cigarette, cupping his hand against the wind. "I never talked. Not even when I should have."
They paused beside a window display of marionettes—painted faces frozen in permanent expressions of joy and sorrow. Juno studied them while Leo smoked.
"What happened?" she asked.
"The usual. She wanted everything mapped out. Marriage, house, kids on a timeline. I gave her a travel blog and half-answered texts."
"And she left."
"On camera." Leo's laugh held no humor. "While I was filming a story about soulmates in Lisbon. The irony wasn't lost on anyone."
Juno turned from the marionettes to study his profile. "You stopped believing in permanence."
"Maybe I still don't."
"I don't want permanence." The words came out clearer than she'd expected. "I want presence."
The vintage café they found felt lifted from another decade—velvet chairs, brass fixtures, steam rising from cups like incense. Juno wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep through her fingers.
"Do you believe people can change?" Leo asked.
"I believe they can choose to."
He nodded slowly, as if testing the weight of the idea. "I keep looking for somewhere to belong."
"Maybe we're not places. Maybe we're people."
Leo set down his cup. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. That doesn't make it easy."
Outside, fog pressed against the café windows like curious fingers. Inside, they sat with their truths spread between them on the small table—fragile, essential things neither had planned to share.
The jazz bar materialized from an alley Juno would have missed if Leo hadn't steered her down it. No sign, just a red door and the faint sound of saxophone bleeding into the night.
Inside, smoke and music wove together. A quartet played Miles Davis while couples leaned into each other at tiny tables. Leo and Juno claimed spots at the bar, drinks appearing without being ordered.
"This feels like a movie," Juno said.
"The kind where everyone's beautiful and tragic?"
"The kind where everyone's real."
The saxophone sang something lonesome and perfect. Juno rested her temple against Leo's shoulder—not romance, just gravity. He didn't move away.
"I wanted to say something earlier," he said. "But I didn't want to ruin the quiet."
"Say it now."
"You scare me. Not because of what you feel—but because you make me want to feel, too."
Juno reached into her bag, pulled out her journal, and pressed it into Leo's hands. "Then feel this."
He opened to the page she'd marked with a coffee-stained receipt. At the top, in her careful handwriting: Maybe Love Isn't a Place.
Below it, a single paragraph:
Love isn't about permanence. It's about presence. It's choosing someone not because they complete you but because they witness you. It's staying curious about a person even when they surprise you, especially when they surprise you. It's the bravest thing we can offer—not forever, but right now, completely.
Leo read it twice before looking up. "When did you write this?"
"This morning. On the train. While thinking about you."
They walked until the fog began to thin, until the city's edges softened with approaching dawn. The Charles Bridge stretched before them, empty except for stone saints keeping their eternal watch.
Leo pulled out his camera, capturing the way mist clung to medieval arches. Juno took polaroids—her boots against wet stone, the bridge's empty span, Leo concentrating on his viewfinder.
"I wanted to run when I saw you today," she said.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because running away from something means I'm still thinking about it. And I'm tired of thinking."
Leo lowered his camera. "What do you want instead?"
"To choose. Every day. Even when it's easier not to."
The sun carved through fog like hope made visible. Tourists would arrive soon, but for now the bridge belonged to them and the saints and the river running dark below.
Leo stepped closer, not touching but present in a way that mattered. "I can't promise I won't mess this up."
"I don't want promises. I want presence."
"That I can do."
The fog lifted by degrees, revealing Prague in gold and shadow—a city of bridges and choices, of stories that began long before they arrived and would continue long after they left. But this moment, this decision to stay curious about each other, belonged entirely to them.
Juno closed her journal and tucked it away. Some truths didn't need documenting. They just needed living.