Milan was a painting of motion and metallic light. It breathed differently than Paris — faster, sharper, as if time didn't walk but sprinted past every corner.
Aurélie arrived in the city with two suitcases, a sketchbook, and a heart too full for words. The atelier was more beautiful than she imagined — walls lined with archived gowns, marble floors echoing with the footsteps of legacy.
But at night, the silence of her apartment felt louder than the city itself.
Especially when Elio wasn't on the other end of the line.
---
Back in Paris, Elio's days felt quieter.
The apartment, once pulsing with laughter and late-night arguments, now seemed too big for just him. He'd wake up and instinctively glance at the spot where Aurélie used to leave her socks or coffee mug or ribbon-tied hairbrush.
It was all still there.
But she wasn't.
He poured his energy into preparing for the Morocco trip, editing photos for the crew, and rehearsing how he'd handle two months of sand, strangers, and the kind of loneliness no lens could capture.
---
They texted. Called. Shared voice notes filled with details and declarations.
But sometimes, they didn't talk for days.
Sometimes, one would say "I'm okay" when they weren't.
And that scared them both.
Because being apart didn't just mean distance. It meant new worlds opening up, new faces, new routines. And every small shift made them wonder — would love be enough?
---
One evening, under a dim Milanese lamp post, Aurélie sent him a photo.
It was of her sketch — a bridal gown, delicate and simple, with a golden thread running along the hem.
"This is for my final portfolio," she captioned. "I called it: The Dress I'd Never Wear."
Elio replied after a few minutes.
> "But it looks like something you'd wear."
> "If you were really in love."
She didn't respond right away.
Then:
> "Maybe I am. But love doesn't always wait for a ceremony."
He stared at the message for a long time.
---
Before leaving for Morocco, Elio decided to visit her.
It was a last-minute ticket. One bag. No plan. Just instinct.
When he rang the bell to her apartment in Milan, she opened the door barefoot, in a paint-stained shirt and a look of disbelief.
"Elio," she breathed.
"I missed you," he said simply.
Her arms wrapped around him faster than her words could follow. They didn't speak much that first hour. Just sat on the floor, heads pressed together, heartbeats syncing as if to say, we're still here.
---
The weekend was short. Too short.
But it was enough to remember the feel of each other's laughter. Enough to make memories they could carry into the nights apart. Enough to fall in love again — not for the first time, but differently.
On Sunday evening, she walked him to the station.
The sun was setting in pastel bruises. Trains hissed in the distance, impatient and cold.
"I wish time would slow down," she whispered.
Elio turned to her, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "I don't need more time," he said. "I just need to know you'll still be there when it's over."
"I will."
"Even if we change?"
She swallowed. "Especially if we change."
He kissed her, not like a goodbye, but like a pause. Like he was bookmarking her — until next time.
---
Back in Paris, he left a note on the fridge before flying to Morocco.
"I'll send you sunsets."
And he did.
Every day, from the orange sands of the Sahara, from rooftops in Marrakesh, from trains that wound through mountain towns. Each photo came with a short line:
> "This one reminded me of your voice."
> "Today, the sky wore your favorite shade of blue."
> "You'd hate the food. But I'd still make you try it."
---
Aurélie, in return, sent sketches.
A scarf that looked like the wind he once held her hair back from.
A pair of heels she imagined him photographing in some magazine shoot.
And once — a sketch of a small kitchen, messy with toast crumbs and coffee stains. She captioned it: "Home. Us. Some day."
---
But as days turned to weeks, something started to change.
Not in their love — but in the world around it.
New people entered their lives.
Aurélie was working closely with an Italian designer named Matteo — sharp-jawed, endlessly curious, and full of ideas. They shared late nights in the atelier, long conversations about fashion and dreams and the strange ache of ambition.
She never hid him from Elio. But still, a part of her hesitated to say how much she enjoyed those moments.
And Elio — in Morocco, he met Yasmine, a translator for the crew. She was kind, quiet, with eyes like old books. She didn't flirt. She just understood things without words. And sometimes, that was enough to feel dangerous.
They didn't cross any lines.
But they both felt it — the closeness of temptation when loneliness stayed too long.
---
By the end of the second month, the texts were fewer.
They still loved each other.
But love, they were learning, wasn't always loud. Sometimes, it went quiet. Not because it died — but because it needed space to breathe.
---
When Elio returned to Paris, it was spring.
He dropped his bags in the apartment and stood in the silence. Her jacket was still on the hook. Her favorite mug — chipped and floral — still by the sink.
But she wasn't due back for another three weeks.
He sat on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and wondered:
Are we still us?
---
That night, he got a voicemail.
It was her voice.
> "I saw cherry blossoms today. Made me think of that first week at the fake wedding. Remember? You said they looked like confetti from God. I miss you. I miss us. But I also feel… scared. Like we're drifting into versions of ourselves that don't fit anymore. Not in a bad way. Just… different."
There was a pause. Then:
> "Tell me we'll be okay. Even if okay looks different now."
---
Elio listened to that message three times.
Then he sat down, opened his laptop, and wrote her a letter.
He didn't send it right away.
He titled it: "The Future According to Elio."
In it, he described a small home filled with too many books, a dog that chewed on her shoe designs, and a Sunday routine of croissants and quiet.
He didn't beg her to stay.
He just asked her to keep dreaming of that kitchen she once sketched — the one with toast crumbs and coffee stains and laughter between walls.
---
And as he wrote the final line, he realized something:
Love wasn't just about holding on.
Sometimes, love was about trusting someone to return — even if you didn't chase them.