Their last day in Paris didn't feel like a goodbye.
It felt like laundry.
Noa stood in their tiny bathroom, stuffing socks into a suitcase. Ren was lying on the floor, trying to zip up his duffel bag like it had personally betrayed him.
"This zipper's gaslighting me," he muttered.
"You overpacked."
"I packed emotionally."
She smiled, didn't argue.
There were no big plans that day. No Eiffel Tower. No dramatic riverboat rides. Just quiet errands and leftover pastries. Just one last walk down streets they could almost navigate without a map.
Ren looked around the apartment one final time.
"You know," he said, "this place wasn't bad."
"The ceiling leaked."
"The mattress tried to kill my back."
"The neighbor yelled at you in French because you played Taylor Swift at 2 a.m."
"But still," he grinned, "not bad."
Noa closed her suitcase and sat on it. "We should go."
He didn't move.
Then softly: "Do we have to?"
She paused.
"Yeah."
But she didn't sound sure.
—
They walked to the train station slowly.
Paris was doing that thing again—where it looked cinematic and slightly smug about it. Everything glowing, cobblestones wet just enough to sparkle, cafés full of people having conversations they'd probably remember forever.
"Do you think we'll be different after this?" Noa asked, not looking at him.
Ren shoved his hands in his pockets. "I think we already are."
She nodded.
"I just hope we don't forget."
"Do you forget things that mattered?"
"I don't know," she said. "People do it all the time."
He stopped walking.
She turned.
He said, "I'm not going to forget you, Noa."
She blinked.
He smiled faintly. "I mean... I haven't since the day we met."
She tried to laugh, but it came out like a hiccup.
Then: "You're going to make this goodbye unbearable, aren't you?"
"I'm not saying goodbye."
"We're going back to Tokyo."
"Exactly," he said. "We're going back. Not ending."
She stared at him.
Then asked, "So what are we now?"
He thought about it.
Then shrugged. "Messy. Real. Ongoing."
She tilted her head. "That's not a definition."
"It's the best kind."
—
The train platform was cold.
The kind of cold that made you wish someone would say something important just to warm the moment.
But neither of them did.
Not at first.
Ren helped her with her bag.
Noa adjusted the strap on his backpack.
Their hands brushed. Their eyes met.
No fireworks. No music swell. Just quiet.
Then Ren said, "You know how everyone wants a love story?"
Noa nodded.
He added, "This isn't that."
She raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Romantic."
He smirked. "Wait. I'm not done."
She waited.
He said, "This isn't a love story. But it's ours. And it's better. Because it's not perfect. It's stupid and strange and not always timed well—but it's real. And I'm not trading it for anything."
Noa stared at him.
Then whispered, "That was... annoyingly good."
He leaned closer. "Do I get a kiss for that or—"
She kissed him before he could finish.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't staged.
It was just... them.
And that made it more than enough.
—
The train doors opened.
Noa stepped in.
Ren stayed on the platform.
She didn't cry.
But she smiled the way people do when they're full and fragile and certain that they're carrying something too big for just one heart.
As the doors closed, Ren raised two fingers in a tiny salute.
She mirrored him.
The train pulled away.
And just like that, Paris was behind them.
But something else—something unfinished, something honest—was finally starting.
Not a love story.
But maybe something better.