I didn't like my phone before. Too many memories stuck behind a glowing screen. Since the breakup, I changed the case, the alarm, the playlist. Nothing helps: whenever the light turns on, my heart speeds up as if it remembers on its own.
That night, I decided it would be light. I put away my makeup brushes, reheated some pasta, put a series on in the background… and reopened LovLink. Left swipe, right swipe. Identical bios, identical smiles, "no drama" written in capital letters the best way to announce the opposite.
Mila sends me a voice note:
"Are you swiping or over-thinking love again?"
I laugh.
"Both. Multi-talented."
"Good. And if you see 'my queen', delete the app and take a cold shower."
I close the message and keep going. A surf instructor in winter, a guy with a falcon ("raptor enthusiast"), another posing in front of a rented car. I could make a cliché bingo out of it.
Then the photo appears.
No filter. Golden late-afternoon light. A gray hoodie, hood down, lashes a bit too long, a gaze caught against the sun. No dog, no watch, no flashy lie. A half-smile that looks like a thought interrupted.
Noah.
The bio: "Photo, climbing, too much coffee. No promises, just honesty."I freeze, thumb hovering. It's ridiculous to feel anything for a name and warm light. I swipe anyway. Short vibration. Digital confetti.It's a match.
I laugh to myself, sitting on my stool, pasta getting cold. A bubble pops up.
"You just saved my evening."
"Was it that bad?"
"It was missing a smile. I think I just found it."
I roll my eyes.
"Professional flatterer?"
"Honest amateur. Noah."
"Léna."
"Nice to meet you, Léna. Want a joke or a real question?"
"A real question."
"What keeps you awake when you know you should be sleeping?"
I smile. Not a "where do you live?", not a "what do you do?".
"Memories. And the idea that tomorrow will be better if I plan it before turning off the light."
"For me, it's the windows across the street. I wonder what people are living."
"Poetic stalker."
"Curious photographer. Sounds less scary."
We keep going. Movies to rewatch when it rains, coffee too strong, the city that never sleeps but constantly yawns. He sends me a picture taken right now: his mug on a book, warm lamp, clean shadow. Simple and beautiful. I imagine his hands when he frames a shot. The thought comes too fast I let it go.
"What do you do?"
"Makeup artist. Well, apprentice. Student shoots, small sets. I run between metros and double-sided tape."
"And you make people more beautiful."
"I try to make them more themselves."
"Hard. We don't always know who we are."
"Exactly."
I finish up, brush my teeth, slip under the covers. The conversation warms the room. He's neither pushy nor intrusive. He texts like someone walking beside you late at night: at your pace, avoiding cracked tiles.
"Is there a place where you feel good, Léna?"
"Here, when the door is closed and my music fills the room."
"And what music?"
I send him a snippet: soft guitar, a voice that heals.
Noah: "Perfect for night walks."
"You walk at night?"
"Often. When I get off work."
"What do you do exactly?"
Three dots. A pause.
"Freelance. Photos for restaurants and shops, short clips. A bit of everything."
"Swiss-army knife."
"And you, a distraction that made me miss my bus on purpose."
I giggle stupidly. I haven't laughed like that in a while. Soft danger. Mila would say: Slow down. But my fingers don't slow down.
"Call? Five minutes. Put a voice on your name."
My throat tightens. A call is letting him into my room.
"Okay. Five."
The phone buzzes. His voice is deeper than I imagined, slightly rough at the end of sentences.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"We just opened a secret door," he says.
"You romanticize everything."
"Only what's worth it."
We talk about rain on asphalt, faces changing when they laugh, clients convinced they look photogenic under neon lights. I tell him about a shoot: an actor anti-foundation who turned tomato-red after an hour. He laughs. I like hearing him laugh. Time slides. The "five minutes" become forty.
"I should sleep," I whisper.
"Me too. But…"
"But?"
"I'd like to show you the city the way I see it. Not in photos. In real life."
I smile without meaning to. "Slow down, photographer."
"Slow down," he repeats.
We hang up with the feeling of having left a window slightly open. Last message:
"Good night, Léna. Negotiate with your memories."
"Good night, Noah. Turn off the windows across the street."
I fall asleep with my phone on the pillow, heart on standby.
In the morning, I hold on for two metro stops before opening the app.
"Did you dream?"
"Of a city where the windows turn off when you've found the right one."
"It exists. You just need the switch."
"Poet."
"Curious. Tonight, coffee? Not a date. Two walkers. Fifteen minutes. You can leave anytime."
Internal alarm: too fast. But the offer is exactly the shape I can handle. A frame. An emergency exit.
"Client at 6 p.m. 8 p.m. near the canal?"
"Perfect. Gray hoodie."
"Very original."
"Red book in hand."
I laugh.
Mila explodes on WhatsApp: "Details. Everything. Now."
We schedule a debrief at 7 p.m. at Café des Arts.
The day goes by in a blur of loose powder and brushes. One face after another. I say "close your eyes", "relax your jaw", "breathe". I repeat to myself that I'm not getting carried away. My reflection looks back at me: sure.
At 7 p.m., Mila leans on the table.
"So. Call?"
"Yes. Deep voice. No pressure. A kind of calm."
She nods — profession: best friend, specialty: survival protocol.
"Rules. Shared location. Code word. If I text you 'grapefruit', you answer 'umbrella'. If he doesn't look like his photo, you leave. If he insists, I'll call pretending to be your sick grandma."
"You play grandma very well."
"I know."
I leave at 7:40. The evening smells like bread and incoming rain. The canal moves slowly. Streetlamps turn on one by one, like someone testing the stars.
I share my location. Mila sends a thumbs-up and an "umbrella" for fun. I laugh, nervous. I scan the silhouettes. Jogger, walkers, a dog too happy for this world. I check my hair in the black screen, put the phone away. Breathe.
7:59 p.m.
Noah: "I'm here."
I look up. On the other side of the small bridge: gray hoodie. Hood down. Red book in hand. He stops, lifts his eyes. The world makes no special sound, but something shifts in me, very slightly, like a ring you turn to feel it again.
He walks over. The rebellious strand of hair is there. The half-smile too, shy and sharp. I didn't expect him to look exactly like his picture. I didn't expect anything, to be honest. Relief comes before joy.
We stop one step from each other.
"Léna?"
"Noah?"
We say our names like checking a password. We laugh, a little stupidly. I notice his hands: hands that know how to hold cameras and books. He notices, I think, the pink tint still on my nails.
He hands me the red book. "Proof that I'm me."
I raise an eyebrow. "Already seen the book trick."
"I can recite the weather forecast too, if you prefer."
I smile. "Walk. Fifteen minutes. No more."
"Promise."
We start moving, side by side. Streetlamps count our steps. I feel like talking and, at the same time, afraid to say something that ruins everything. He spares me the "you're prettier in real life", thank God.
"Want to hold the book?" he asks.
"You afraid I'll run off with it?"
"I'm afraid you'll think I planned a dramatic gesture. I only planned… this. Walking."
I glance at him. His profile is exactly like the photo more alive. He listens in a way that makes you believe you're saying important things even when you're talking about the weather.
"Which side of the canal do you prefer?" he asks.
"The one where we don't run into my ex."
He laughs, then gets serious. "If he shows up, tell me. I'm great at distraction."
"Like what?"
"Dramatic scream, pretend thunderstorm, controlled fall. Full range."
I laugh again. The tension drops a notch. We walk under a tree; the leaves rustle above us.
My phone vibrates. Mila: "Grapefruit?"
I answer with an umbrella. Noah notices the vibration, doesn't insist.
"You been living around here long?"
"Since I learned to boil water without forgetting it. You?"
"A bit everywhere. Three apartments in two years. You get good at traveling light."
"And at leaving fast," I say, sharper than I meant.
He nods. "And at leaving fast."
We walk more. Time breathes with us. I feel the moment coming: the one where you decide if the fifteen minutes end now or stretch, softly, with no promise.
He turns toward me. The light catches his eyes.
"Can I say something… not dramatic?"
"Try."
"I was nervous. Still am."
My answer comes on its own.
"Me too."
We stop. The streetlamps draw a line to the next bridge, like a path we're supposed to follow. My phone stays quiet. The world too, just enough for me to hear my own heartbeat.
"Fifteen minutes," I repeat.
"Fifteen," he says.
And I understand the countdown has only just begun.