The jet hummed quietly beneath me, smooth and endless like we were gliding through silk. I stared out the window, watching the clouds roll past — my thoughts heavier than the sky.
Kyle sat across from me, legs kicked up on the armrest, flipping lazily through his tablet.
"You're being weirdly quiet," he said without looking up.
I didn't answer at first. I was too busy listening to my own heartbeat.
It wasn't fear. Not quite.
It was relief.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was suffocating.
No school debt.
No parents comparing me to a dead brother.
No girlfriend manipulating me with crocodile tears.
No best friend ditching me the second things got hard.
I wasn't him anymore.
But that was the problem.
I looked down at my hands — longer, slimmer, flawless.
Every inch of me was borrowed. I was living in someone else's skin.
No memories of how he'd risen to stardom. No emotional bond with the fans who cheered for him.
Was I stealing a life that had already existed?
"Hey," Kyle said more softly, setting the tablet down. "Talk to me."
I glanced at him. "Do you… ever wonder if I'm not me?"
He snorted. "Dude, you always sound dramatic when you're tired."
"I'm serious."
Kyle frowned now. "You are you. Do you think I'd waste years chasing you around if you weren't?"
I almost smiled. Almost.
Kyle was strange. We were the same age, but he always carried himself like he was older. Like he'd seen too much too soon. He dressed simple, moved sharp, and didn't care about bowing to industry snakes.
"I just… don't remember a lot lately," I said. "Sometimes I feel like I just woke up in someone else's life."
"That's because you worked yourself to death," he muttered, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it to me. "You begged the agency for this break, remember? You said you wanted to live like a normal teen before you hit your twenties."
"Why Paris, though?"
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "You don't remember that either?"
I shrugged slowly.
"You said you found a school here — Collège Françoise Dupont — and it felt… familiar." He chuckled. "I still think it's weird how specific you were about the building, the street name, even the bell sound from their morning videos. Like déjà vu on steroids."
I froze.
That name.
Collège Françoise Dupont.
It hit me like a cold wind down my spine. I didn't just remember it.
I knew it.
So well, it scared me.
I looked down at my hands again. They weren't trembling, but my pulse was racing.
I'd watched that school on a screen once.
A school in Paris with a mayor's daughter.
A girl named Marinette.
A boy with golden hair.
A guitarist with ocean eyes.
Could it be…
Was I really inside that world?
But how? Why?
I leaned back into the seat, heart fluttering in a strange mix of awe and anxiety.
And excitement.
I was going to meet Luka.
Luka.
Even if this wasn't exactly a dream come true, it was close.
This time, I wouldn't be invisible. I wouldn't be on the sidelines.
And I wouldn't let Luka be either.
---
✦
The penthouse in Paris was absurdly luxurious — marble floors, velvet couches, wide glass walls that framed the Eiffel Tower like a painting. It screamed money and privacy.
Kyle wandered in like he owned the place, already texting someone while unpacking just the essentials: chargers, vitamins, and a stack of files he'd probably make me read later.
"You've got a few hours before orientation," he called. "But heads-up — the mayor's daughter requested to meet you for lunch."
I raised a brow. "Requested?"
"She basically blackmailed her way onto the guest list," Kyle muttered. "Something about Paris's image and international prestige. You'll love her."
I blinked. "…Chloe Bourgeois?"
He looked up. "Yeah, that's her. Know her?"
Too well, actually. I remembered every insult she spat in class, every over-the-top outfit, every time her father bent rules to please her.
I remembered… her trying to be better once. Quietly. Hesitantly. When no one was watching.
---
✦
Chloe Bourgeois was exactly as I remembered her — poised, smug, and dressed like she had three stylists on speed dial.
She waited at a rooftop café table at Le Papillon, perched like a queen bee on a throne. Lemon yellow blazer, silk scarf, oversized sunglasses. She didn't look up when we arrived.
"You're late," she said coolly, then finally lifted her gaze. "But I suppose international stars get some leeway."
I slid into the seat across from her. "And you must be Paris's brightest star. A pleasure."
She smirked — just a little. "Finally, someone with taste."
Over lunch, Chloe wasn't friendly, but she was strangely genuine in her own sharp-edged way. She talked about her father's constant press interviews, the school's "tragic" lack of elite students, and her irritation with "peasant behavior."
But I noticed something else.
The way she paused before saying her father's name.
How she rolled her eyes when talking about "friends."
The flicker of exhaustion behind her confident posture.
Maybe she wasn't just a mean girl.
Maybe she was lonely.
Just like I had been.
I didn't interrupt much. I just listened. Kyle stayed quiet too, watching me with mild surprise — probably expecting me to bite back.
Instead, when dessert came, I smiled faintly and said, "I think I'll like Paris."
Chloe blinked, then gave me a quick, secret smile. "Try not to be boring."