The Paris sky shimmered in soft silver that morning — rain hovering but never quite falling, like the city itself was holding its breath. Ava walked briskly down the cobblestone street toward Galerie de Lune, her latest exhibition space, clutching her portfolio to her chest.
Inside the gallery, the air smelled faintly of turpentine and champagne. Assistants moved around her paintings, positioning them beneath spotlights.
Each piece pulsed with color — explosions of red, strokes of dark steel, soft shades of ivory — the story of her months apart from Sebastian, painted in silence and longing.
"Magnifique," said a voice behind her.
Ava turned. Étienne Marchand stood there — tall, impeccably dressed, a man with the kind of effortless Parisian confidence that could charm even marble statues into smiling. His eyes, dark and curious, scanned the nearest canvas. "This one," he said, pointing to a storm of color in the corner, "is almost violent. And yet… tender. Who is it meant for?"
She hesitated. "It's not meant for anyone. It's about feeling."
Étienne smiled knowingly. "And yet, every great feeling begins with a person."
Ava didn't answer. She moved past him, checking the positioning of another piece, but she could feel his gaze follow her — not predatory, but perceptive. He saw too much, and that unsettled her.
"You have a gift," he said finally. "Your work bleeds emotion. The critics are already whispering that you're the next Matisse."
"I'd rather be the first Ava Monroe."
He laughed softly. "Of course you would."
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By evening, the gallery buzzed with life. Guests flowed in — collectors, critics, journalists. Champagne glasses clinked. Ava floated between conversations, accepting praise and polite questions, her smile never faltering even when her heart wasn't in it.
She should've felt triumphant. Months ago, this moment would've been everything she dreamed of — her art on display in Paris, her name on every critic's lips. But fame, she realized, felt strangely hollow when the person she wanted to share it with was an ocean away.
She caught herself glancing at her phone more than once. No new messages.
"Waiting for someone?" Étienne's voice cut through the noise. He'd appeared beside her again, his tone smooth but curious.
Ava slipped her phone into her purse. "Just checking the time."
He offered her a glass of champagne. "Then let me keep you company until whoever it is arrives."
"I'm not expecting anyone," she said, but she accepted the drink anyway.
They moved through the gallery together, the world spinning softly around them. Étienne asked about her inspiration, her process, her use of color. His questions were intelligent, disarming. He made her laugh — a quiet, surprised laugh she hadn't realized she missed.
When they stopped in front of her final piece, his voice softened. "This one feels different. As if you painted with your heart instead of your hands."
Ava stared at the canvas. It was the most intimate of the collection — a swirl of gold and gray, two figures standing close but not touching. She'd painted it after Sebastian left Paris.
"It's called The Distance Between Us," she said quietly.
Étienne nodded. "Beautiful. Painful." Then, after a pause: "Whoever inspired this — he must be very lucky."
Her throat tightened. "Or very far away."
He studied her, then said softly, "Then perhaps you deserve someone who's here."
The words lingered, dangerous in their gentleness. Ava took a step back, steadying herself. "You shouldn't assume what I deserve."
Étienne raised his hands in surrender, a faint smile curving his lips. "Forgive me. I only meant that sometimes we paint what we wish we could have."
She met his gaze — steady, unflinching. "And sometimes we paint what we refuse to forget."
He held her eyes a moment longer, then nodded slowly. "Touché."
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Later that night, when the crowd thinned and the gallery lights dimmed, Ava slipped out into the drizzle. The city glowed — golden streets reflecting car lights and laughter. Her heels clicked softly against wet stone as she walked home, champagne still warm in her veins.
Halfway across the Pont Neuf, she stopped, staring at the Seine. The air smelled of rain and longing. Paris had always been beautiful, but tonight it felt lonely.
Her phone buzzed. A message.
Sebastian:You did it. I saw the reviews. I'm proud of you.
Her chest tightened. She read it three times before replying.
Ava:Thank you. It feels strange. Everyone's here, and yet… I keep wishing you were.
There was a pause. Then:
Sebastian:So do I. I'm counting days.
She smiled faintly, blinking away the sting behind her eyes.
Ava:How's London?
Sebastian:Combustible. But manageable.
Ava:And you?
Sebastian:Unmanageable. I can't stop thinking about Paris.
Her heart fluttered. Paris — not the city, but her. She knew it.
Ava:You'll come soon?
Sebastian:I'm trying. Everything's… complicated right now.
She exhaled slowly, the familiar ache returning. Complicated. Always that word.
Before she could type a reply, another message appeared — not from him, but from Étienne.
Étienne:Congratulations again, Ava. Your art moved people tonight. Especially me.
She stared at the two names on her screen — two worlds that couldn't coexist.
One safe, near, tangible.
The other distant, dangerous, magnetic.
Ava turned off her phone and slipped it back into her pocket.
She leaned on the bridge railing, eyes on the water. "What am I doing?" she whispered.
The Seine rippled beneath her, catching light like scattered stars.
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Hours later, she sat in her studio, barefoot, a new canvas before her.
She tried to paint, but every color felt wrong. She dipped her brush in gray, then gold, then crimson — the colors of him.
When she finally stepped back, the canvas was chaos.
It wasn't art — it was longing made visible.
She wiped her hands on her jeans and laughed bitterly. "Well, Sebastian," she murmured. "You've ruined me for anything ordinary."
Her phone buzzed once more. A new message.
Sebastian:Can I call you?
Her breath caught.
She pressed her phone to her ear, and his voice — deep, familiar, grounding — filled the silence.
"Tell me about your night," he said softly.
And for the next hour, she did. About the lights, the applause, the strangers. About Étienne's questions she hadn't wanted to answer. About missing him so much it made her art hurt.
Sebastian didn't interrupt once. He only listened, his silence a kind of promise.
When she finally stopped, he whispered, "I'll be there soon. I don't care what it costs me."
Her heart trembled at the certainty in his tone. "You mean that?"
"I do. I'm done letting distance win."
And for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to believe him.
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