Chapter 29: The Space Between Us
Paris was slowly becoming a rhythm.
There was something in the hum of the metro, the way the light fell across cobblestones, how the sky changed its shade of blue by the hour. Emma's days started with burnt espresso, a croissant that flaked apart like promises, and mornings in the studio with the smell of oil paint clinging to her sleeves.
Afternoons, she wandered the arrondissements alone—her sketchpad under one arm, a scarf twisted around her neck. She had learned to blend in. To walk like she belonged.
Yet every face she passed reminded her of someone else.
Someone thousands of miles away.
Lucas.
---
He texted, but not like before.
Where once there were spontaneous voice notes, emoji-filled updates, and late-night video calls that stretched past reason, now there were long silences. The occasional "Sorry, crazy day at the lab" or "Thinking of you" dotted her inbox like raindrops on a dry window.
At first, she told herself it was okay. New routines. Different time zones.
But with every unanswered message, the space between them widened.
---
Julien noticed.
"You paint differently now," he said one late afternoon, standing behind her in the atelier.
Emma didn't turn. "Differently how?"
He tilted his head, his hazel eyes fixed on her canvas. "Your lines are softer. More searching. As if you're not trying to capture something, but to remember it."
She looked down at the painting—an abstract mix of navy, faded rose, and bone white. It wasn't anything concrete. But it felt like her heart spilled open.
"Maybe I'm homesick."
"Or maybe," he said quietly, "you're somewhere in between."
---
The atelier hosted a group critique that night, and Emma's painting was up for discussion.
A spotlight shone on her piece as fellow artists gathered, sipping wine, murmuring thoughts.
One of the instructors, a grizzled painter with glasses smudged by turpentine, spoke first. "There's grief here," he said. "But it's beautiful. Controlled. The color choices are tender. This isn't someone in despair. It's someone waiting."
That hit her harder than she expected.
Julien leaned toward her. "He sees it too."
She offered a small, closed-mouth smile. "Yeah."
---
That weekend, the residency hosted a rooftop party for the midpoint celebration.
Music floated on the breeze—soft jazz from a live trio below. Wine flowed. The Eiffel Tower blinked in the distance like a lighthouse.
Emma stood by the edge of the terrace, arms folded, a silk dress swaying in the wind.
Julien joined her, silent for a beat before speaking. "There's something I heard."
She looked at him. "What?"
"Atelier Lumière wants to offer you a solo showcase. Your series. End of the program."
Emma's breath caught. "But I'm not ready—"
"You are," he said, his voice gentle. "You just don't see it yet."
Their eyes locked. There was a flicker there—something fragile and electric.
She pulled her gaze away. "Julien…"
"I know," he interrupted, pain curling the edge of his words. "I know you're still in love with him."
"I am," she whispered.
He nodded. "But he's not here. And I am."
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
The city buzzed beneath her window, alive and indifferent.
Emma stared at her phone screen, Lucas's name at the top. She typed a message, deleted it. Tried a voice note, then deleted that too.
Finally, she hit "call."
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Voicemail.
Her voice cracked as she spoke:
"Hey… I miss you. I don't know if you're busy or if you're pulling away or if I'm just… imagining it. But I miss the way we used to talk. I miss hearing you breathe on the other end of the line. I miss the stupid things, like your dumb cereal choices and how you always say 'literally' too much. I still love you, Lucas. I hope that still matters."
She ended the call.
And cried quietly, in the dark.
---
Two days passed. Silence.
Julien kept his distance, respectful, but present.
They shared moments—walking through the Musée d'Orsay, drinking strong black coffee in tucked-away cafés, laughing about how awful Emma's French still was.
He never pushed. But he didn't need to.
His presence was steady, magnetic in a way that wasn't demanding but undeniably comforting.
---
Then, finally, a message.
From Lucas.
> I'm sorry.
I've been drowning a little over here. MIT is brutal. I didn't want to drag you down with my stress.
But hearing your voice… God, Emma, it woke me up. I love you. I've never stopped.
Please don't give up on us. Call me?
Emma stared at her screen for a long time.
Her fingers trembled as she dialed.
This time, he picked up on the first ring.
---
His voice was tired. But it still held warmth.
"I thought you were mad at me," he said.
"I was," she admitted. "But mostly… I was scared."
He sighed. "Me too."
They talked for over an hour.
About MIT. About the showcase offer. About Julien.
There was a pause.
"You like him?" Lucas asked.
Emma didn't lie. "I do. But not the way I love you."
Another silence, this one deeper.
"I want to be there," he said finally. "For the exhibit. I'll fly in. Just tell me when."
Her heart flipped.
"You'd really come?"
"Yeah," he said. "I want to see the version of you that's been living without me. I want to see what you've become."
---
After the call, Emma returned to her canvas.
She painted all night.
Brush strokes fierce and luminous. Colors bleeding into each other—passion and confusion, loss and love.
She painted Lucas's silhouette in fragments of gold.
And at the edges, she painted her own reflection, only clearer.
She was no longer waiting for someone to complete her.
She was learning to complete herself.
---
By sunrise, her fingers were stained, her eyes rimmed red from sleeplessness, but her heart was lighter.
She messaged Marianne: "I accept the showcase."
Then texted Lucas: "It's happening in three weeks. Paris. Be here."
He replied instantly: "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
---
That afternoon, Julien found her at the Seine, sketching bridges.
He didn't speak right away.
When he did, it was simple. "You chose him."
Emma nodded. "I never really didn't."
He smiled, a little sad, but not bitter. "Then you owe it to both of us to make it count."
---
Paris no longer felt like a question.
It was an answer she had to live her way into.