Another sad and long one. Still I hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing it 💕
Now, there’s only 1 more to go… I’m emotional :(
Also, itt’s past midnight from where I’m posting, so happy Christmas Eve eve!! 🫶🏼
Chapter Eighteen: Endings
They fall back into Paris quietly.
No moment marks it. No sense of arrival. Only the same familiar hum of the Paris traffic and the people.
The days in the south fold themselves into something finished but not closed.
Life resumes, their same routine sliding back into place. Felling like two people returning from a dream they’re not ready to wake from.
She goes back to her apartment, back to Julie, back to late nights on the couch with mismatched blankets and half-watched films. Her days are freer now, unfilled by internships or university deadlines.
Her first day at the job doesn’t start until mid-July so she tries to occupied her free time with things; anything to keep other thoughts from slipping in. She runs errands, buys groceries she doesn’t strictly need, cleans the apartment, and goes out to the library.
An email comes through from her university tutor on Thursday afternoon while she’s sitting cross-legged on her bed.
Your final thesis grade was just posted in the university platform. Très bien! :). Wish you all the best of luck at your new job! You’ll be brilliant.
She reads it twice, screen bright on her face. Lets it land slowly in her body. Her grade is really good. More than she expected. She lets herself smile, not celebrating to loudly. Then texts Julie from the other room.
Julie bursts in her room,screaming for both of them.
They open a bottle they’ve been saving for no reason. Drink it from mugs and talk about nothing and everything.
It warms her heart when he asks about it the next evening, when they meet for dinner at his place. Because he still remembered, even with so much happening.
She’s still seeing Kylian, fitting him in between her own empty hours and his last chaotic days in Paris. Some times at his place, Some nights he comes by hers after training, tired and loose-limbed, collapsing onto her couch like it's always been his, falling asleep with the TV on low volume. His last days as a PSG player runs under everything like a low current. He doesn’t say it out loud, but Anna feels it in the way he moves through rooms a little slower or the way he lingers.
He leaves for the national team in a week.
Somewhere in the quiet of those last days, in the gaps between dinners and mornings, between packing lists and half-finished conversations, they arrive at an understanding without naming it. When he goes to Clairefontaine, that will be it.
He will be absorbed by training, by schedules and hotels and the singular focus that always overtakes him before a tournament. She will be starting her new job the same week he’ll fly to Germany. new desk, new routines, a future that requires her full attention. Two beginnings happening side by side, close enough to touch, but not meant to overlap.
The symmetry of it makes it feel intentional, even kind. Like the universe offering them a clean edge instead of something frayed.
The knowledge sits between them without ever being spoken, like a clock neither of them looks at but both of them hear.
They don’t deny that it’s ending. They just refuse to dramatize it. There are no speeches, no ultimatums, no late-night bargaining. They continue as they are, sleeping tangled, laughing at small stupid things, stretching the ordinary moments because those are the ones that hurt the most to lose.
They let the ending exist without rushing toward it.
His apartment has started to change.
At first it’s subtle, a shelf emptier than usual, framed photos taking down. The negative space registers before the loss itself. Then small cardboard boxes appear, stacked neatly by the wall, like reminders they’re both trying not to look at.
The night before his last game for PSG, the place is unusually alive for a night before a match.
She’d mentioned the idea to Yaëlle offhandedly, almost joking, something small, something sweet, just family. A way to mark the end of the season for him and Ethan without turning it into another goodbye. Yaëlle had loved it immediately. Of course, she’d said, already pulling up a list in her head, already planning.
Now they’re here together, sleeves rolled up, occupying the space like conspirators.
Kylian and Ethan were already gone - team hotel, final prep. The absence gives the place a strange freedom.
Fayza shows up before dinner, bags in hand, already smiling like she knows something good is about to happen.
They work late. Furniture shifts; fairy lights are tested and retested. Fayza insists on helping with everything: tying ribbons, putting up a balloons, taste-testing sauces. Yaëlle moves with her usual quiet efficiency, directing without ever seeming to.
Anna tapes a small banner slightly crooked above the kitchen doorway. She steps back, tilts her head, adjusts it a centimeter to the left. It still isn’t perfect. She leaves it anyway.
Isaiah and Lana’s. are sprawled on the floor drawing and cutting paper stars far too large, arguing about whether yellow is «too sunny» or just right. The seriousness of the task making Anna smile.
“I can’t draw stars.” Lana groans, tipping her head back dramatically, marker clenched in her fist like it’s personally betrayed her.
Anna kneels beside her, scissors in hand, folding herself down into the small constellation of paper scraps and glitter scattered across the floor.
“I’ll tell you a secret.” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I don’t know how to draw them either.”
Lana narrows her eyes, suspicious, weighing the truth of this confession.
“Promise you won’t tell tonton Kylian.” Anna adds, leaning in closer. “He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
“I won’t!” Lana says solemnly, pressing a hand to her chest, though the corners of her mouth twitch, already imagining the betrayal.
When it’s done, they step back and take it in. It’s imperfect, handmade and unmistakably theirs.
“This looks amazing.” Yaëlle says, hands on her hips. “Better than the farewell party I’ve been planning for a month.” She clicks her tongue. “Honestly, I’m a little insulted.”
Anna laughs, shaking her head. “Impossible. This level of chaos could never compete with your organisational skills.”
“They’re going to love this.” Fayza says quietly, stepping closer. She squeezes Anna’s hand, firm and warm. “Thank you… for doing all of this, for thinking of them.”
Anna smiles, but something tightens behind her ribs. Gratitude always lands heavier when it comes from Fayza.
They finish just after midnight.
When the lights are finally off and the apartment settles into silence, Anna lingers alone for a moment. The decorations glow faintly in the dark, cheerful and defiant against the bare walls and packed boxes. The space feels full and hollow at the same time, joy taped onto an ending.
The next morning, they all ride to Lyon.
She sits in the stands with his family, folded neatly into them like she belongs there. The kids buzz with energy as fireworks erupt at the opening ceremony; Mattias sits beside her, calm as ever. Yaëlle keeps her phone close, answering texts, still managing last-minute details for the farewell party happening tomorrow night.
His father sits a few rows down beside another man, leaning over to murmur something to Fayza that makes her smile, that familiar glint lighting her eyes. Anna loves that they still get along. That, even apart, they remain parents first, tethered by pride, by shared history, by their children.
The stadium is loud and electric.
She watches Kylian warm up. Ethan too, sharper, more rigid with nerves, but bright with anticipation. She cheers for both of them, heart stretched wide.
During the anthem, Kylian doesn’t look toward the stands, but she sees the telltale signs anyway: the way his throat tightens when the crowd sings his name, the brief closing of his eyes, like he’s trying to seal the moment inside himself.
He plays beautifully that night, Fast and fluid , laughing when he slides for the ball in his green boots. He keeps smiling the way he always does,like a kid who can’t quite believe he’s allowed to do this for a living.
When the trophy is lifted, Anna claps until her hands ache, eyes watery. He’s looks so happy, glowing in that way only victory gives him. The medal clinks softly when he moves between photos, noise and laughter. She presses her hands together, breath caught somewhere between pride and grief, knowing with a clarity that feels almost cruel, that this is the last time
They return to Paris late.
When Kylian unlocks the door and flicks on the light he frezzes.
A banner reads, «Félicitations Ethan et Kylian!», letters uneven, held up with far too much tape. The aper stars taped crookedly to the walls. Balloons floating too low. Food is scattered on the counters, half-covered plates and bowls waiting to be finished.
“What the-” Kylian starts, grinning, taking a step inside. “What is this?”
“Surprise!” the kids shout in unison, voices bright and chaotic. Ethan lets out a laugh
The night unfolds - Food is passed around, a playlist hums low in the background, conversations overlapping. The group sprawls across the living room,, stumbling occasionally on stray balloons. Fayza fusses over plates, Yaëlle refills glasses with quiet efficiency. Hakimi has joined them, drifting between the group and the counter, complimenting the food every few minutes.
Tchaga arrives too, sporting a new hairstyle, and Anna and Kylian exchange a small, knowing smile across the room. Kylian cracks jokes about it later, she overhears as she slips into the kitchen for a cup; laughter carrying through the slightly messy, luminous apartment.
Kylian appears in the kitchen moments later, away from the cozy, chaotic noise of the living room. He leans against the fridge, watching her.
“You were in on this, weren’t you?” he asks, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Only partially.” Anna says, shrugging, a little too casually. “No comment.”
“I totally caught you with the paper stars. They do looked like spiders.”
She grins, the memory of their first meeting flickering back. “Don’t start.”
“They did end up in the hall after all.” he laughs, and she notices the flash in his eyes , he's recalling that moment too “ I mean its not an art gallery, but it's my apartment, so I guess it counts as it.”
“I think I like it better here.” she says softly, letting the words hang.
She sips her drink, and her hand slips, glass clinks against the counter as it settles down. She catches his eye and shrugs, a little embarrassed, a little amused.
“Can’t believe I didn’t suspect any of this.” he says, shaking his head in mock exasperation.
“And here I thought you were clever.” she says, tilting her head, letting the corner of her mouth twitch just enough to make him grin.
He pushes off the fridge, closing the space until she feels boxed in, and warm. “Clearly, I overestimated myself.” he murmurs, eyes locking with hers.
She laughs softly “Or underestimated me.”
“Maybe a bit of both.” he says, voice low, leaning closer until the hum of the party fades into a background echo.
“You didn’t have to do this.” he murmurs again, voice tender, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
I wanted to.” she replies, shrugging slightly, gaze lingering on the medal resting on his chest. Her fingers ghost over the ribbon, fiddling with it.
“Thank you for doing this, for me.” he says. “And for Ethan too.”
“You deserve it.” she says, soft, almost reverently. “It’s been a long season. You’ve earned this.”
He looks at her, like he wants to say twenty different things and none of them will come out. Finally, he finds the simplest: “Je t’aime.”
Their lips meet, a gentle collision over the counter. His warmth floods her, grounding and urgent all at once.
“Stay here tonight.” he murmurs against her mouth, and she doesn’t hesitate. She nods, letting the night stretch around them.
In the bedroom, he pulls her close immediately, hands steady and warm on her back. She burrows her face near his, breathing him in.
“You ok?” he murmurs, voice quiet against her hair.
“Yeah… just thinking.” Her words are muffled, fragile.
“About what?” he asks, brushing a soft kiss along her shoulder.
“Everything.” she whispers.
He hums against her, steady, grounding. “You always think too much.”
“And you think too little.” she shoots back, faint smile tugging at her lips. “So… balance.”
He laughs softly. “Balance. ” he agrees, voice smug, but tender.
Something warm twists painfully in her chest.
Three days. Just three days left.
“I’ve been thinking about it…” he ask almost hesitant “Do you want to try long-distance?”
The question lands between them like something fragile. Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just… there. Hovering, waiting to be handled carefully.
The phrase sounds reasonable. Adult. Practical. It sounds like something people suggest when they love each other and don’t want to feel like they failed. Something you say to prove that what you had mattered enough to try preserving it.
She knew what it would do to them.
His schedule already swallows half his days, even when they’re living in the same city. Madrid would take the rest. She would be working more, taking on more, building the life she’s been moving toward slowly and carefully. They’d miss each other by hours, by exhaustion. One missed call turning into two. A cancelled weekend becoming a pattern. Little disappointments collecting like dust.
Then the resentment, small at first. The kind that makes love feel like obligation.
She sees them arguing over little things that aren’t little: a plan she breaks because she’s overwhelmed, a weekend he can’t fly because of a match; the feeling of never being in the same place at the same time. She sees them becoming sharp-edged with each other. The distance would wear them down. Make something tender turn brittle.
And she doesn’t want that. Not with him, especially not with him. She’d rather keep this softness, this safety between them.
She turns her face slightly, her nose brushing his chest.
“Kylian.” she says softly.
He hums in response, encouraging. She swallows.
“I don’t know if I’m built for halfway.” she admits. The words come out gentler than she feels. “I don’t think I’m good at pretending I’m okay when I’m not.”
He’s quiet. She feels the shift immediately. The way he listens with his whole body.
“We wouldn’t be pretending.” he says after a moment, careful. “We’d just… adjust.”
She almost smiles. He always believes adjustment is enough. That effort, applied generously, can solve most things.
“I know. ” she says. “And I love that about you.”She traces a slow, absent circle on his chest. The motion steadies her, even as it undoes her “But I think we wouldn’t survive it. ” she says careful, with a kind of gentle devastation “We would start living in the waiting. Waiting for messages. Waiting for visits. Waiting for us to feel like us again. And it’d break us.”
He looks at her then and she can tell he knows she’s right. That he has imagined the same scenarios in the quiet moments he hasn’t told her about.
His throat bobbed. “Yeah.”
“You’re about to step into this whole… new life.” she continues, softer now. “New city, new team, new people, new everything.” She touches his cheek lightly. “And I want you to live all of it with your whole chest. Not half here thinking about whether I’m lonely or if we’re ok or if I’m waiting for you.” She swallows. “I don’t want to be the person that makes you live half of a life… to hold you back.”
He shakes his head immediately, a gentle, instinctive protest.
“You would be holding me back.” he murmurs, and she knows he means it. But she also knows he would twist himself into whatever shape she needed if she let him.
“You would make yourself smaller to make this work. I know you. I don’t want to become the reason you stop growing. Or the reason you look back one day and think you missed things.”
He tilts his head down, forehead resting against her hair. She feels the weight of him then, not physical, but emotional. The effort it takes not to argue. Not to persuade.
“You think it would hurt less if we don’t try.” he says. It’s not an accusation. It’s a genuine question.
“I think..” she says slowly, “it would hurt cleaner.”
The word hangs there. Clean. Like a cut that heals instead of festering.
She reached for him now, her hand brushing the side of his face. He leaned into her palm instinctively, eyes closed.
“I don’t want us to fade into frustration. Or forget how soft we are with each other.” she says “I want to remember us like this.”
She kisses his face and his hand moves up her back, thumb pressing into a familiar spot, grounding and unconscious.Silence settles, heavy but not hostile but kind that sits with you when you’ve there nothing much to say.
They lie there, her face in his throat, his fingers tracing slow circles on her hip. Every so often he presses a kiss to the top of her head, like he’s trying to apologize for something neither of them can fix.
At some point, he whispers, pressing his lips on her head.
“You ruined everyone else for me.”
The following day they show up together at his farewell party. The ache from the night before hadn’t gone but the tension had softened. They would face the celebration as themselves: together, present, knowing the choice they’d made and try to enjoy it as much time they had.
The party is at one of the city famous restaurants, meticulously picked by Yaëlle and the enthusiasm of someone planning a royal coronation
Half of Paris is here. Friends from different eras of his life overlapping in ways that shouldn’t make sense but somehow do. Teammates in relaxed shirts instead of kits. Staff from PSG, people who watched him grow up inside corridors and locker rooms and press rooms. People he shared pieces of himself with, briefly or deeply, over seven years.
They had arrive an hour or so ago, hand on her lower back, guiding her through the door, but once inside he was swept away by people who love him, people who are part of the story he’s closing. She lets him be taken.
She’s used to this rhythm now.
She watches him drift through the room like someone being gently passed from hand to hand, smiles, claps on the shoulder, quick embraces. He thanks people with the same soft sincerity every time, head dipping, hand over his chest, like he’s trying to absorb all of it without letting it overwhelm him.
Julie and Guillaume waved her over from their table. Julie mouths oh my god in reference to everything - the décor, the energy, the fact that they are at this party ans Anna bites back a laugh. Guillaume tries to play it cool but keeps adjusting his shirt collar.
She said hello to other few people she became acquaintance through Kylian. Then plates started to circulate. Burrata cut open, olive oil pooling. Bread torn by hands that keep getting distracted.
People drift and regroup, stories beginning in one corner and ending somewhere else entirely.
He hugs people easily, laughs loudly, lets himself be held, slapped on the back, praised. Every few minutes, someone raises a glass. Someone says his name. Someone tells him Madrid is lucky. Someone tells a story, someone else repeats it differently, and Kylian leans back, laughing so hard he has to press his hand to his chest. Hours pass like minutes. Laughter ebbs and flows, stories repeat, people hug, take pictures, toast again. Anna notices every detail: the way Kylian’s leans foward when someone is talking to him; the little smirk on his face when someone tells a joke that only he finds funny; how every so often way he keeps scanning the room, his eyes find hers.
She’s mid conversation with a couple she remembers having dinner once with Kylian, when Yaëlle catches her eye from near the bar.
“Come.” she says. “I need a second opinion.” Yaelle beckons, conspiratorial
Anna follows her towards the back, slipping between bodies, brushing past familiar shoulders, offering soft pardons and half-smiles as she goes.
Yaëlle stops at a side table and lifts the lid of a small, elegant box.
The cake. With his face, printed neatly on top.
Anna lets out a laugh before she can stop it, bright and a little helpless.
“I’m thorough.” Yaëlle replies, pleased with herself. “And it’s small.” she adds, tipping her head innocently “Tasteful. Mostly.”
Anna laughs, shaking her head. “Has he seen it yet?”
“No.” Yaëlle grins. “I’m placing it out now.” she states. “He’s going to pretend to hate it.”
“He will.” Anna agrees easily. “And then he’s going to take ten photos of it.”
“At least.” Yaëlle chuckes..
They clink glasses, sharing the kind of grin that comes from knowing someone too well.
When Anna drifts back into the room, she finds him instantly, as if some part of her is calibrated to him without conscious effort. He’s mid-conversation with a man she vaguely recognises as one of the PSG physios, smiling, relaxed, fully at ease
She leans back against the wall instead of moving towards him.
A second later, he looks up. Their eyes meet across the room, a smile to travel between them. He mouths, you good? She nods. He raises his eyebrows slightly, like he knows, and then turns back to the conversation
She watches him without urgency, without the sharp pull of needing him beside her.
She likes this version of the night, watching him be held by other people’s affection, watching how easily love gathers around him. It reassures her in a quiet way. He is not alone in the world. He never will be.
When he’s free, he comes to her.
His hand settles at the small of her, automatic, a grounding reflex like muscle memory. She leans into him without thinking, her body forgetting what her mind has already accepted.
“You’re hiding?” he asks, mouth close to her ear.
“No, I’m socializing at my own pace.” she counters
He kisses her cheek, lingering just enough to make it feel like a reward.
“I heard some very funny stories about you.” she adds. “And I may or may not have had a private preview of a special cake."
He groans softly, forehead tipping forward until it almost touches her temple. “Yaëlle brought the cake, didn’t she.”
Anna nods, pleased. “It’s… respectful. Mostly.”
“If it helps.” she says, “it looks delicious.”
His face lifts. A smirk she knows to well splashes over his face.
“If you want a piece of me, you know you can just ask. ” he murmurs, half-teasing, voice warm against her ear “no need for a cake.”
She nudges him with her shoulder, laughing, and he laughs too, breath warm against her skin.
He pulls her for a quick kiss then, the kind that doesn’t need witnesses. When he pulls back, she stays close.
“Are you ok?” She asks finally, voice low.
“Yeah.” he says, then tries again, more honest. “I don’t know.” She nods like he understands. Because she does. “It’s weird.” he says quietly. “Being celebrated for leaving.”
She exhales something that hovers between a laugh and a sigh, a little ragged, and shakes her head. “Don’t get all shabby now.” Her tone is teasing, but soft. She steps a fraction closer, meeting his eyes fully. “You’re doing really well tonight. “
He studies her face for a second, like he’s filing the moment away. Then he squeezes her waist gently, grateful, steadying.
It’s intimate and unspoken. The acknowledgment that even amid celebration, even amid the inevitable ending, they are still here, still together, still holding onto this fleeting, precious present.
Someone calls his name from across the room, loud and affectionate, and before she can blink he’s being gently tugged away, hands on his shoulders, laughter breaking out around him like a ripple.
Anna laughs softly and gives him a small push between the shoulder blades. “Go.” she mouths.
A glass clinks somewhere. Then again. Someone else joins in, louder this time.
“Speech!” a voice yells, half-drunk, half-sincere. Others echo it, messy and enthusiastic.
Kylian laughs, already shaking his head as he’s nudged toward the center of the room.
She drifts back to the wall as the room reshapes itself around him. Julie slips in beside her, warm and familiar. Anna smiles at her.
He stands there now, one hand in his pocked, while the other hold a microphone, weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other. The way he moves when he’s nervous, even after all these years of cameras and crowds.
He looks beautiful tonight, she thinks, not in the polished way people usually mean, but in this exposed, human way. Tall, opened, and slightly overwhelmed.
“I consider all the people who are here very dear,”he begins, voice sincere “so it will be easy to talk and open my heart to everyone.”
Anna feels something warm and steady settle in her chest. first, then sadness, braided through it. And beneath all of it, the quiet recognition of everything under the surface: the end of Paris, the beginning of Madrid, the weight of change that neither celebration nor champagne can soften.
Julie bumps her shoulder lightly “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m listening.” Anna murmurs
Julie tilts her head. “No, you’ve got that look. That something is brewing”
Anna snorts. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me right now.”
“There is no message to convey. You really are people I want to thank from the bottom of my heart. If you're here, it's because at one point you influenced my life.” Kylian continues.
His speech is simple and honest. He talks about Paris making him, about feeling eight years old and twenty-five at the same time; about being scared and excited; About endings, and beginnings, and how both can exist at once.
Inexplicably, he looks toward her. Just a glance, a small, grounding flicker. She holds it. Smiles. Lets him know she’s here.
The room listens, suspended. And Anna becomes aware, suddenly, of time, not as something moving forward, but as something narrowing.. A countdown no one wants to name.
The goodbye conversation won’t happen tonight. They both know that. Tonight is for celebration, not endings. Tonight she is just his girlfriend, and he is just the boy who dreamed big and made it all real.
In two days, he’ll leave for Clairefontaine.
Then Germany, and ultimately Madrid.
She tries not to follow the thought all the way through. But it brushes her mind anyway, persistent, impossible to shake, the knowledge that this is already almost over, even as it’s still happening.
She wakes already feeling wrong.
Her throat scratches faintly when she swallows; her head feels tight, wrapped in something invisible. She stands in the shower longer than usual, letting the water run too hot, convincing herself it’s nothing.
She didn’t bring a jacket to the farewell party two nights ago; She stood outside too long; She drank too much wine. All reasonable explanations that he repeats while towelling off and dressing.
There must be a cold brewing in, she tells herself that.
But she knows it isn’t that.
Her body has always been like this, a traitor, or maybe a better listener. It’s like it knows what's coming and it's already grieving in its way.
She goes to his apartment late in the morning.
Paris looks deceptively ordinary on the way over: people with grocery bags, someone walking a dog, a café terrace already filling up even though it’s barely noon. Anna feels slightly unreal moving through it, like she’s doing something wrong by participating in a day that doesn’t know what it is.
Yaëlle opens the door, her face softens immediately
It smells like cardboard and cleaning spray and something warm underneath, his cologne,stubbornly still present despite the evidence to the contrary. The place looks unfamiliar in a way that makes her stomach dip.
The apartment is all boxes now. Cardboard stacked neatly against the walls, labelled in black markerlabeled in thick marker: Madrid. Shoes. Kitchen. Books. Some half-open like they were interrupted mid-thought. The couch is gone. The walls are pale where frames used to hang.
The absence is louder than the clutter ever was.
“He’s in the bedroom.” Yaëlle says gently. “Packing for Clairefontaine.” Then, she adds: “Come. Let me make you a tea first. You look pale.”
Anna laughs, a little hoarse. “Thank you.”
Yaëlle guides her to the kitchen. There a box in the counter, tape beside it. Yaëlle must have been do some last packing. Yaëlle is leaving as well.
Anna leans against the counter because it feels like something she can do without thinking. The stone is colder than she expects. The kettle begins to boil, its sound filling the silence in a way that feels almost intimate.
“How are you?” Yaëlle asks
She’s not sure if the question is about her state of being sick or about everything that is happening
“I’m fine.” she says automatically, then corrects herself. “I think.” Both answers feel equally true and equally useless. “Just a bit under the weather.”
Yaëlle hums, unconvinced but not pressing. She pours the tea, slides the mug toward Anna.
“Your job starts in July, right?” Yaëlle says, conversational.
Yaëlle smiles. “That’s great, love. You are going to do well I’m sure. ”
The praise lands softly. Anna wraps both hands around the mug, grounding herself in the heat.
“I’ll still be in Paris around then.” she says, thinking aloud, as if flipping through her schedule in her head. “Maybe we could meet for coffee. And you can tell me what it’s really like working in an office”
Anna laughs softly. “Not quite as exciting as being a football star’s assistant, I'm sure.” She nods, takes a sip of her tea. “But yeah, I’d really ilike that.”
Yaëlle smiles then says, softer, “I’m going to miss you.”
Anna looks at her, pressing her lips together, determined not to cry. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry today. Crying feels like admitting something she isn’t ready to admit.
“I’ll miss you too, Yaelle.” she says, voice wobble “Your advice, your cooking..you getting frustrated at Kylian for not following his schedule.” She exhales, a small, embarrassed laugh. “You’ve been very kind to me. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for that.”
“You don’t need to.” Yaëlle says. “You’re a very special girl. I’m glad you came into our lives.” she adds then , almost practical: “Oh, I’ll still scold him in Madrid in sure.” Yaëlle replies. “It's only the country that changes.”
Then, lighter: “I will always be here, whenever you need me.” She says “Anna squeezes her arm, affectionately “If I have to.” Yaëlle adds, “I’ll leave him starving in Madrid and fly back just to cook for you.”
Anna laughs, properly this time."Deal."
"Just call." Yaëlle adds. "Anytime you need."
They hug, and Anna feels it then, a dull ache settling in her chest: how much space Yaëlle has taken up in her life these past months. Not only as his assistant, but as a friend. As a family.
Yaëlle squeezes her hand once before letting go.
“Go check on your boy, now” she says. “I’ll finish up here and head out too. Got some last minute errands to do.
The bedroom door is open.
Anna lingers in the doorway for a second without speaking. The air feels thinner here. Maybe it’s because his bedroom his emptier, half the furniture is gone, only the bed and nightstand remain.
Or maybe that's just her.
The wardrobe stands open and hollow, hangers clinking softly when he moves past them. A small duffel bag open on the bed half-full - socks folded too carefully, boxers stacked with unnecessary precision, his tablet wrapped in a hoodie,chargers coiled carefully. His movements are precise but strained, like every sock requires a decision.
He’s wearing an old t-shirt, soft and washed thin, one she associates with late mornings and bare feet and coffee gone cold.
He looks up when he feels her there.
“There you are.” he says, immediately soft. “Hey baby.” he says
He crosses the room in a few strides, as if distance is a minor inconvenience. He cups her face, kisses her mouth, then her cheek. He smells like himself. Like home, inconveniently.
“You’re warm.” he murmurs “And not in a good way.” he presses the back of his hand to her cheek, then her forehead. “ You’re ok?”.
She almost smiles at how fast he clocks it. She wants to say it’s fine, because that’s what she’s been saying all week, about everything. Instead she says:
“I think I’m getting sick.” she says.
“Concern flickers instantly. “Have you taken anything? I can ask Yaëlle-”
she interrupts gently, shaking her head. “I already took something before I came. And Yaëlle, she offered me tea.”
He watches her a second longer, unconvinced, then pushes her into him. The contact is grounding and devastating at the same time. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath her cheek, like the world is still functioning correctly even though hers feels suspended. She kisses her head before she pulls back.
“You packed already?” she asks, nodding toward the bag, because logistics are safer than feelings.
“Most of it. Just the boring stuff left.” he says sighs, affectionate and tired. “Socks, chargers. My entire personality.”
She lets out a small laugh. Relief flickers across his face, like he needs her to stay normal so he can too.
She sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. The room feels too large now, emptied of things that mattered. She presses her palms down, grounding herself in the texture of the fabric. If she thinks too hard, she knows she’ll spiral. .He turns back to his duffel bag. She watches his hands, the way he folds, unfolds, refolds, like he’s buying time.
The nightstand is empty now. There’s no phone charging, no water bootle, no absurdly expensive watch. The photo booth strip from his birthday, the one where they’d crammed into the frame laughing, is already gone too.
That lands harder than she expects.
Her gaze drifts to the bathroom, door half-open. Halloween flashes through her - the first night, the shock of waking up here, of realizing that meant something . Then everything that followed: toothpaste kisses, bare feet on cold tile, whispering and laughing about nothing at all. The showers they shared, and somehow, after it, feeling closer.
A whole life, dissolving quietly.
He must feel her looking, because he says softly,
"It's weird, right? Seeing it all packed."
"Yeah." she replies “It makes it all real I guess”.
Silence settles between them, heavy and inevitable. She thinks about how hard she’s been trying to make this gentle. How she’s swallowed words all week, smoothed her tone, laughed at the right moments. How being «ok» feels like a role she’s performing out of love. If she collapses, he will too. She doesn’t want that.
“You could just buy all new furniture, you know?” she says “ Fresh start, minimalist era.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “I know. Yaëlle’s already reminded me about three times this week, right in the middle of her packing breakdowns.” He pauses, softer now, voice low. “But I like my things. I guess… I’m emotionally attached to them. To here.”
She smiles faintly. Then lies back slowly, staring at the ceiling. She heard him zip the bag shut, and joins her, stretching out beside her, their shoulders touching. The contact sends an immediate, involuntary relief through her body , followed by the sharper awareness that this is finite.
She shifts closer anyway, the mattress sighing softly under their weight. His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining with a familiar ease, grounding them both.
“You know.” he says suddenly, “when we first met… at that galley?”
She hums, a quiet prompt, heart skipping at the memory.
“It wasn’t an accident.” he continues, thumb brushing hers. “I bumped into you… on purpose.”
She turns toward him, brow raised. “What?”
“I thought you were… pretty. ” he says simply, almost shyly. “And I wanted to talk to you. Make a move.”
She laughs at the absurdity of his statement.So it wasn’t clumsy fate. It wasn’t randomness. It was intention.
“Why are you telling me this now?” she asks, her voice low, cheeks warming, realizing that every step he took toward her had been deliberate.
“I don’t know” he murmurs, a shadow of a smile playing at his lips. “I thought you should know.”
She shifts closer, curling into his side. Her head rests against his chest. His heart beats steady under her ear.
“Well, now that we are airing some truths.” she whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, “I’m glad you made your move. Really glad.”
Silence settles around them again, full of memory.
“Are you sure you want to stay?” His tone is teasing, light, almost hopeful. “Spain has really good food. And less rain.”
She laughed, a real one. “Are you trying bribing me with carbohydrates and sunshine?
“Yes.” he says, voice low, almost smug. “And I can be very persuasive.”
She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. For a half-second, she lets the fantasy breathe.
She could still go. She could pack.
She could step into another life with him and let the world dissolve around them
The thought is intoxicating and humiliating. she hates herself a little for how easy it feels. She tells herself she’s only doubting now because this is the moment where fantasy collapses into logistics. Because now it’s real. Because now there’s a door closing, and her brain is doing what brains do, bargaining with reality.
She doesn’t think she’s made the wrong choice. She thinks she’s grieving the loss of possibility.
“And what would I complain about if not Paris rain?” she says, attempting a casual shrug, but her voice carries a tremor she can’t quite mask.
“You’d find new things to complain about. ”he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe how much the sun burns… you might even forget Paris ever existed.”
Her smile softens, a flicker of warmth in the bittersweet “I would never forget about Paris.”
He nods slowly, eyes dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat before returning to meet her gaze. “I know. Me neither.”
His gaze lingers like he’s memorising the way she looks right now, her hair slightly unbrushed, the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head, the way her oversized jumper swallows her frame yet doesn’t hide the life in her bright, tired eyes.
She wonders when she started being someone worth memorising.
She reaches out, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger, a gesture so familiar it almost hurts.
“The other day at the farewell party, I felt… I don’t know.” he begins, voice low, careful. “Like everyone was celebrating something, and all I could think was that you won’t be in that life.”
Her eyes sting immediately. She blinks, looking away, chewing on the rise and fall of his words.
“I kept thinking… how much I’m going to miss you.” he adds in a way that missing her feels too small a word. Like saying drowning is inconvenient..
She wants to cry. She can feel it, the catch in her throat, the heat behind her eyes. She keeps her mouth pressed together.
He doesn’t need to ask. He knows. She isn’t silent because she doesn’t feel it, she’s silent because if she speaks, it will spill everywhere.
She squeezes his hand instead. Once. Twice. Then again, letting the rhythm of her pulse speak what her words cannot.
“I’m going to miss you too.” she says after a moment, her voice low, trembling just enough to betray her control. “A lot.” She lifts her eyes to him, burning with something raw, something she can’t name.
“But then it will pass.” she adds, nodding as if she’s certain, even even though she isn’t. “Things will get better. We’re both be so busy doing our things that we’ll forget. You’re going to be so incredible there.”
Her words are careful, measured, almost rehearsed, like she’s repeated them a hundred times in the privacy of her mind. Like repetition might anchor them, make them safe to speak aloud.
“You deserve everything you’re going to get.”
He exhales slowly, the sound of it mingling with the quiet of the room. “This feels unfair.” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like we did everything right and still… ended up here. We both got what we wanted; our dreams, our own paths… and yet they don’t fit together. It’s not fair.”
She presses her forehead against the back of his hand, letting herself lean into the truth of it, letting herself feel the ache too keenly. “I know. “ she whispers, and it’s all she can give.
She thinks how cruel it is. How can it make any sense? That the best version of this story, the one where love is alive and real and full, is still so achingly sad?
The problem isn’t love. It never was. It’s geography. It’s timing. It’s two dreams growing in different directions, colliding softly at first, then inevitably pulling apart.
She leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He pulls her into his arms strong and steady, the way he always holds her like he’s certain of her presence in that moment. She curls into him instinctively, fitting against his chest as if this were a law of physics.
They stay like that for a long time - no words, no promises, just the ache of two people who love each other and know love isn't always enough to keep two lives aligned.
“Maybe in a year, or two…” she says, testing the words. “Well meet again and maybe there we’ll different people. More settled. And maybe then the timing isn’t… this violent. And there's going to be place for us again.”
“There’s always going to be space for you in my life, Anna.” he says .“Distance won’t change how I feel about you. ” he says firmly.
The sentence hits her harder than I love you ever could.
She leans in and kisses him. Not to stop the conversation, to survive it. Gratitude and grief braided together.
“I'll love you, Kylian” she whispers “Always.”
