The Louvre was enormous.
Too enormous for two people running on three hours of sleep, one espresso shot, and emotional confusion.
They stood in line behind at least two school field trips, one elderly couple who kept saying "Mona Lisa" like it was a magic spell, and a man wearing a beret unironically.
"This place is massive," Noa said, shielding her eyes from the glass pyramid's glare.
"It's basically a city of art," Ren replied. "With worse signage."
They got inside after thirty minutes of shuffling through metal detectors and accidentally photobombing at least seven tourists.
The Louvre greeted them like a well-dressed aunt with too much perfume: intimidating, a little overwhelming, and whispering, *You better behave.*
"Where do we start?" Ren asked.
Noa shrugged. "Let's wander. I want to get lost."
He glanced sideways. "You sure that's safe? Last time we got lost, we ended up at a goat cheese festival with two guys named Pierre."
"That was a highlight."
"You cried at the cheese samples."
"They were emotional."
—
They wandered.
Through Greek statues, Egyptian sarcophagi, giant oil paintings of men on horses and women with blank expressions.
Noa fell silent.
Ren noticed.
She wasn't her usual self—no sarcastic remarks, no exaggerated eye-rolls, no impromptu history lesson about how rich people hoarded art.
She just walked, slowly, staring at everything too long. Like she was waiting for it to speak to her.
Finally, in a quiet hallway lined with Renaissance portraits, Ren asked:
"You okay?"
Noa didn't look at him.
She just whispered, "I don't know."
They stopped in front of a painting of a girl holding a dead bird.
Classic.
Noa's voice was low. "I thought coming here would make me feel something."
"You don't?"
She shook her head. "I mean, yeah, the art is beautiful. The history's incredible. But… I feel like I'm looking through glass. Like everything's happening on the other side."
Ren was quiet.
Then said, "Maybe that's what art is. Something you're supposed to feel, but not touch."
Noa looked at him.
"I wasn't talking about the art."
Their eyes met.
And for a second, the hallway felt too narrow. Too quiet. Too full.
Noa turned away.
Ren didn't follow.
Not immediately.
—
Later, they reached the Mona Lisa room.
It was packed.
People pushed, elbowed, raised phones like shields. Mona Lisa stared back, tired of all of it.
"I always forget how small she is," Noa said.
"Same," Ren replied. "I imagined her taller."
"She's been disappointing tourists for centuries."
They laughed. Briefly.
Then Ren said, "I've never seen you this quiet before."
Noa folded her arms.
"Do you want me to start yelling about capitalism again?"
"No. I just... miss your noise."
She looked at him.
He added, "I know we joke about not being romantic. About Paris being overrated. But it's also okay if this gets real sometimes."
Noa swallowed.
"Even if it's scary?"
Ren nodded. "Especially if it's scary."
Noa blinked quickly.
Then turned away.
"Let's go find the gift shop before I say something I can't take back."
Ren smiled. "Too late."
—
The gift shop was overstocked with Mona Lisa magnets and overpriced postcards. They bought matching tote bags, because of course they did.
Outside, the sky had turned cloudy again.
Noa walked a little ahead, tote slung over her shoulder, expression unreadable.
Ren caught up.
"Hey."
She didn't stop walking. "Hmm?"
He held up the receipt.
"You know this says 'Non-refundable emotional damage' on it?"
She snorted.
Laughed.
Finally.
"Thanks," she said, looking at him.
"For what?"
"For not pushing."
"I never push."
She raised an eyebrow. "You push. But gently. Like a soft nudge off a cliff."
"Into a river of feelings."
"Ugh. Stop."
They smiled.
And this time, it wasn't awkward or heavy or uncertain.
It was simple.
And real.
—
That night, Noa sat on the apartment couch with the tote bag beside her.
Inside it was a postcard of the dead bird painting.
She didn't know why she picked that one.
Maybe because it was weird.
Maybe because it felt like something she couldn't explain yet.
Maybe because it reminded her that even sadness had its place in a gallery like the Louvre.
And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to accept that she didn't have to know how she felt all the time.
Sometimes, it was okay to just… feel.
Especially when someone was quietly sitting beside you, holding the space without asking for anything in return.