Friendship, Alina was learning, didn't need an origin story.
It didn't need shared wounds or confessions offered too early, too intensely, like credentials. It didn't need to be justified by history or crisis. It could begin the way the day did—quietly, with an invitation, and the mutual willingness to stay.
The lunch was meant to be simple.
Claire suggested it after book club the week before, her tone casual. Thomas nodded immediately, already checking his calendar out of habit. Isabelle offered to bring something, then Elodie waved her off, declaring that cooking was not something one outsourced when there were people to feed.
So they gathered on a Wednesday that felt unremarkable in the best way.
Alina set the table outside, choosing the long wooden one she'd grown fond of. She placed plates without ceremony, glasses mismatched but clean, napkins folded loosely. The garden was awake with late-season warmth. Leaves stirred. Bees passed through without lingering.
Claire arrived first, carrying a bottle of wine wrapped in paper that had been reused so many times it felt like tradition. Thomas followed, empty-handed but smiling, as if that were contribution enough.
Isabelle came with Elodie, the two of them arguing softly in the driveway about whether the bread needed reheating. Elodie won, as she usually did.
They sat.
Someone poured wine. Someone declined. Someone reached for olives before the plates were fully set.
Lunch began.
It unfolded the way all good meals did—not in courses, but in rhythm. Conversation rose and fell. Someone told a story that drifted off halfway through and never quite returned. Someone else filled the gap with laughter instead of explanation.
Claire spoke about a book she'd recently abandoned—not because it was bad, but because it demanded too much attention when she wanted to be left alone. Thomas admitted he reread the same paragraph three times when he was tired and found it comforting rather than frustrating.
Isabelle listened more than she spoke, her hand resting on the table, fingers tracing patterns in the wood. Elodie moved between plates, adding food quietly, as if nourishment were something that could be slipped into a moment without interrupting it.
Alina watched it all with a sense of grounded ease.
No one asked questions that required excavation.
No one waited for cues to speak.
No one tried to turn the gathering into something meaningful by force.
Presence did the work.
At some point, the food was finished.
No one stood.
Someone refilled glasses. Someone leaned back, chair tipping slightly. The sun shifted. Shadows lengthened.
Hours passed without being counted.
They spoke about small things—the best time to walk through town, which path stayed shaded longest, whether it was worth visiting the coast again before the weather turned. Elodie reminisced about summers when time felt endless, when lunch bled into dinner and no one minded.
"This," she said, gesturing at the table, "is how people forget to be lonely."
Claire nodded. Thomas smiled. Isabelle met Alina's eyes and held them for a second longer than necessary, as if acknowledging something shared without naming it.
When the dishes were finally cleared and stacked inside, Alina's phone buzzed.
She checked it absently.
A video call.
Her NYU group chat.
She hesitated, then accepted, angling the camera so the table remained in view.
Faces filled the screen—familiar, easy, unchanging in their affection.
Julien appeared first, sunlight catching his hair through a window. Ethan leaned into frame next, coffee in hand, expression composed.
Camille joined a moment later, elegant even through the screen, hair pulled back, posture calm.
Then another window opened.
Margot Sinclair appeared, still in her scrubs, hair tied up messily, hospital lighting harsh above her. She looked tired—but present. The kind of exhaustion that came from long hours, not emotional chaos.
"Sorry," Margot said. "I'm on break. Ten minutes."
"That's more than we deserve," Julien said warmly.
Margot smiled at Alina. "You look… peaceful."
Alina smiled back. "I feel peaceful."
Julien lifted his glass. "Introduce us."
Alina did, passing the phone around, laughter following each name. Claire waved. Thomas nodded politely. Isabelle leaned in with a grin. Elodie squinted at the screen.
"The picture quality could be better," Elodie declared.
Margot laughed softly. "That's fair."
Conversation layered itself easily—questions about food, about weather, about time zones. Camille asked about the garden. Margot asked if Alina was sleeping well. Ethan commented on the light.
It felt like two worlds touching without friction.
Then Ethan cleared his throat.
"There's something I want to tell you," he said, his tone light.
This was when the Èze group finally decided they needed a walk and announced they'd buy dessert from a shop nearby.
Alina's smile softened, but didn't disappear. "Okay."
"Don't respond if you don't want to," Ethan added quickly. "I just feel it's worth mentioning."
Julien shot him a look. Camille stayed quiet. Margot watched Alina carefully—professionally, instinctively.
"He hasn't been seen with anyone lately," Ethan said. "No public appearances. No dates. Nothing."
Alina blinked once.
"Oh," she said.
That was all.
No tightening.
No curiosity spike.
No urge to ask more.
Margot nodded slightly. "You're okay," she said—not a question.
"Yes," Alina replied. "I am."
Julien leaned closer. "You don't have to—"
"I know," Alina said gently. "It's okay."
She meant it.
The moment passed.
Conversation drifted toward holiday plans. Margot mentioned she might finally get time off in December. Camille talked about missing good bread. Julien joked about escaping winter entirely.
Without thinking too much, Alina spoke.
"You should come here," she said.
The words surprised her—not because they felt wrong, but because they felt natural.
"To Èze," she continued. "For Christmas. New Year. If you want."
There was a pause.
Then Julien laughed. "Are you serious?"
"Yes," Alina said. "I have the space. And… I'd like that."
Margot smiled warmly. Camille's eyes softened. Ethan nodded.
"That sounds perfect," Camille said.
"We'll make it work," Julien added.
Alina ended the call a few minutes later, her chest warm with anticipation rather than obligation.
Later, when she returned to her Èze friends—who came back carrying a large pack of caramel pudding—Isabelle asked,
"Friends from the US?"
"Yes," Alina replied. "Old ones."
Elodie nodded, satisfied. "Good. You should have both."
They lingered a little longer, the afternoon finally tipping into evening. When everyone left, Alina stood alone in the garden for a moment, listening to the quiet return.
The table bore the evidence of the day—crumbs, rings from glasses, a chair slightly askew. She didn't rush to clean it.
Lunches that turned into hours, she thought.
Not because anyone was avoiding their lives.
But because they were inside them.
She went inside as the light faded, feeling full—not from food, but from something steadier.
Presence, she had learned, was enough.
And friendship—real friendship—didn't need to be explained.
It only needed time.