Paris in late spring was a kind of soft rebellion.
The wind still carried a chill, but the blossoms refused to wait. Café chairs spilled onto sidewalks again, lovers touched each other like prayers, and the Seine sparkled like it had a secret.
Elio stood outside Gare de Lyon with a bouquet of white lilacs. Her favorite. He wasn't sure if she still liked them.
He hadn't seen Aurélie in seventy-three days.
Not that he was counting.
He saw her before she saw him. She stepped off the train in a gray coat and a beret tilted slightly to the left — the exact way she wore it the first time they met. But something in her eyes was different.
Not colder.
Just quieter.
Their hug wasn't explosive.
It was hesitant, like strangers trying to remember an old dance.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hey," she replied, her voice unsure, like she had been practicing other versions of this moment in her head.
---
They didn't go back to the apartment immediately.
They walked.
Past boulangeries still open at dusk. Past parks they used to cut through for no reason. Past memories.
It wasn't awkward.
Just… fragile.
Like they both feared moving too fast might break something they hadn't named yet.
He offered her the lilacs.
She smiled. "Still remember."
"I always will."
That sentence hung in the air between them like a soft question: But do you still want to?
---
At the apartment, everything was exactly as she left it.
And yet, nothing felt the same.
She unpacked slowly, eyes scanning the walls like they were waiting to tell her something. He made tea — not coffee, not wine. Tea felt safer.
They sat on opposite sides of the couch.
So close.
So far.
"I read your letter," she said finally.
"I wasn't sure you would."
"I read it five times," she admitted. "I liked the dog."
He smiled. "I thought you would."
"I don't know if I want that future," she said, voice low. "Not because I don't want you. But because I don't know if that version of me exists anymore."
He swallowed. "Then let's find out."
---
But it wasn't that simple.
Over the next few days, they tried to return to "normal."
But love, like language, has accents. And theirs had changed.
She talked about Matteo often — not out of malice, but because he was part of her every day now.
Elio listened, laughed at the right parts, nodded. But every time she said his name, something in his chest folded inward.
He didn't tell her about Yasmine.
Not because he was hiding something.
But because Yasmine was never a threat — just a reflection of who he was when he wasn't with Aurélie. A version of himself that survived without her.
And maybe that's what scared him most.
---
One night, rain poured against the window like applause.
Aurélie sat cross-legged on the bed, sketching.
Elio leaned against the doorway, watching.
"You're quiet," she said, not looking up.
"You're drawing," he said softly.
She paused, pencil mid-air. "We don't talk like we used to."
"We don't fight like we used to either."
"That's not always a good thing."
He sat beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, but not close enough to pretend nothing had changed.
"I still love you, Aurélie."
"I know," she whispered. "And I love you too."
Silence.
Then, slowly: "But is that enough?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't know anymore.
---
They tried again the next day.
And the next.
But sometimes love isn't about trying harder.
Sometimes, it's about letting go of what was, to make space for what could be.
They went to their favorite café. The waiter remembered their order, but the way they looked at each other was new.
Unfamiliar.
Tender, but tinged with sadness.
Like two people visiting the ruins of something beautiful.
---
A week passed.
Then another.
They began to exist around each other, not with each other.
They slept in the same bed but dreamed different futures.
They touched, but it felt like muscle memory.
Not longing.
And one morning, she stood in the kitchen, holding his old Polaroid camera. The one he used at that fake wedding. The one that started it all.
"I think I need to go," she said.
He looked up from his laptop, confused. "Go where?"
"I don't know. Somewhere I can breathe."
He stood up slowly. "Are you saying…?"
"I'm saying I need to figure out who I am. Outside of you. Outside of us."
He didn't stop her.
He didn't beg.
Because sometimes, real love is quiet.
---
She packed lightly.
One suitcase.
Her sketchbook.
A scarf he once gave her — the one she almost left behind but decided to tuck into her bag last-minute.
At the door, she turned to him.
"I still believe in us," she said.
He nodded. "Me too."
"Then why does this feel like the end?"
"Because maybe it's the end of this version of us."
She stepped closer.
"And the beginning of…?"
"We'll find out," he said.
They kissed — not like lovers, but like time travelers passing through each other's orbit.
And then, she left.
---
For weeks, Elio lived in the apartment alone.
But not empty.
He played the voicemails she left him. Read her letter. Drank coffee from her chipped mug.
He still sent her sunsets.
She sent him sketches of skies.
And one day, a photo arrived in the mail.
It was of a door — painted turquoise, slightly ajar — with the caption:
"Where I'm staying. It smells like bread and freedom. Wish you were here."
---
He didn't know where she was.
She didn't say.
And that was okay.
Because love, he realized, isn't always about proximity.
It's about presence.
And even in the silence between their messages…
She was still with him.