100 days in May

100 Days in May

Chapter One – Part I: The Leaving

May ran because standing still hurt too much.

The outback was wide and honest in the early morning, the kind of wide that did not pretend to care whether you survived it or not. Red earth stretched out like an old wound that had stopped bleeding but never healed, scrubby bushes crouched low against the wind, and the sky—too large, always too large—pressed down on her as if it were watching.

She ran barefoot at first, then in worn trainers with the soles coming loose, her breath tearing at her throat, her chest burning, the dry air scraping her lungs raw. She told herself she was running toward something—the airport, the plane, France—but really she was running away. Away from the house that no longer held together. Away from her mother’s quiet crying at night. Away from her sisters sleeping three to a mattress. Away from the sound of her father’s voice on the phone, distant and embarrassed, already belonging to another life.

This was her last morning in Australia.

She ran the way she had run as a child, back when running was a game and not a farewell. Past the fence line. Past the dead gum tree struck by lightning years ago. Past the place where kangaroos sometimes gathered at dusk like they were sharing secrets. She ran until her legs trembled and the sun began to climb, bleaching the land into sharper edges.

When she finally stopped, bent over with her hands on her knees, she whispered, “Thank you,” though she wasn’t sure to whom.

Later, in the bathroom with the cracked mirror, she would write about this run in her diary. She always wrote after things happened, never during, as if the act of writing was how she convinced herself events were real.

Diary — Day 1

I ran this morning like I was ten again. I wanted the land to remember me. I wanted to remember it the right way. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the outback again. I love it even though it never loved us back. I think places don’t love people. I think God does.

The house was already awake when she returned. Her mother stood at the sink, shoulders slumped, washing the same cup twice without realizing it. The radio murmured the news—politics, drought, something about rising prices. May’s youngest sister sat on the floor, braiding and unbraiding a piece of string.

No one said much.

The divorce had not been loud. That was the worst part. No shouting, no slammed doors—just papers, quiet conversations, and the sudden understanding that there was not enough money to keep everyone together.

“You’ll be safe,” her mother said for the third time as they drove toward the airport. “Your aunt is good. France will be good for you.”

May nodded and watched the road blur past. She knew the truth even as she accepted the kindness: her mother could not afford to keep four daughters. Her father had already chosen not to.

At the terminal, hugs were exchanged too quickly, like ripping off a bandage. Her sisters cried openly. Her mother tried not to. May held herself very still, afraid that if she let go even a little, she would collapse into something childlike and impossible to carry onto a plane.

Diary — Day 2 (Airport)

This is my first time on an airplane. I thought it would feel magical. It mostly feels loud and confusing. Mum’s hands were shaking when she hugged me. I told her I’ll send money. I don’t know how yet. I just know I will.

The plane itself felt unreal—rows of seats like a church turned sideways, strangers pressed close, the smell of recycled air and nervousness. May sat by the window and watched Australia pull away beneath her, the red turning to patchwork, the patchwork dissolving into clouds.

She talked briefly to an older woman beside her who smelled of lavender and asked too many questions. Across the aisle, a man snored almost immediately after takeoff. A child cried for an hour and then fell asleep with his mouth open, completely unashamed.

May filled pages.

Diary — In the Air

I am leaving the country where I was born. I don’t feel brave. I feel chosen by necessity. God, please don’t let me waste this.

Paris greeted her with rain and exhaustion.

Charles de Gaulle was a maze of signs and languages, announcements echoing off high ceilings. May followed the crowd, clutching her bag, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and awe. This was France. Her mother’s country. A place she had only known through stories and fragments of language spoken at home.

Her aunt found her near the exit, thinner than May had imagined, wrapped in a coat that had seen better decades.

“Ma petite May,” Élodie said, holding her tightly. “You’re so tall now.”

The drive to Montreuil took them past buildings that felt older than memory itself. Narrow streets. Graffiti. Laundry hanging from windows like small white flags of surrender.

The house was smaller than May expected. Very small. The walls were thin, the floors creaked, and the air smelled unmistakably of cats and old wood. Several cats, in fact, observed her arrival with mild disdain.

Her grandmother sat by the window, hands folded, eyes bright.

“Bienvenue,” Mamie Jeanne said softly, and May felt something in her chest loosen for the first time in weeks.

Diary — First Night in France

The house smells like cats and history. I love it. Mamie held my face like she was memorizing it. I think this is what safety feels like, even if it’s poor.

That night, lying on a narrow bed beneath a slanted ceiling, May prayed aloud for the first time in months.

“Jesus,” she whispered, “I don’t need luxury. I just need a future.”

Outside, Paris hummed. Inside, the cats settled, the house breathed, and May fell asleep believing—fiercely, stubbornly—that this was the beginning of something beautiful.

100 Days in May

Chapter One – Part II: Montreuil Is a Kingdom

Montreuil revealed itself slowly, like a story that refused to be rushed.

In the mornings, May woke to the sound of the house clearing its throat—pipes knocking, floorboards complaining, cats arguing softly over territory that never changed. The walls were thin enough that she could hear her aunt cough in the kitchen, hear her grandmother murmur prayers before the kettle boiled, hear the radio crackle awake with the news.

She liked knowing where everyone was. It made the house feel alive, like a body that still wanted to keep going.

The ceiling above her bed slanted sharply, and she imagined it was the roof of a cottage in a fairy tale, the kind where a girl slept under eaves and woke destined for something larger than herself. She knew, intellectually, that the house was poor. She had grown up poor. But this felt different. This felt chosen. Romantic, even.

She pulled on the same coat each morning—too thin for Paris, her aunt apologized, but May shook her head and smiled.

“It’s fine,” she said. Everything was always fine.

Diary — Day 4

Montreuil is not Paris the way people mean it, but I think it’s better. It smells like bread and rain and cats. I walk like I belong here, even when I don’t.

Her aunt Élodie helped her circle job advertisements in the newspaper, the ink smudging onto their fingers as they leaned over the small kitchen table.

“Café work, maybe,” Élodie said. “Cleaning. Shops. You are young, but you are serious. They will see that.”

May nodded solemnly, as if seriousness were something you could carry visibly, like a document.

Mamie Jeanne watched from her chair, knitting something that might one day become a scarf.

“You walk too much,” her grandmother warned. “Your shoes.”

“They’ll last,” May said. Shoes always did—until they didn’t, and then you learned to walk differently.

She treated each walk through Montreuil like an expedition.

The streets were narrow and crooked, refusing straight lines. Shops spilled color onto the pavement—bright vegetables stacked like paintings, bread loaves resting like sleeping animals behind glass, butcher windows that made her turn away politely. Graffiti climbed walls in looping signatures, some angry, some playful, some simply claiming space.

May pretended she was mapping a kingdom.

This street belonged to the bakery woman with flour on her sleeves. This corner belonged to the old man who fed pigeons from a paper bag. This alley belonged to the stray cat with the torn ear who followed her for half a block before losing interest.

Poverty, to May, became texture.

The peeling paint was character. The cracked pavement was history. The smell of damp wood and cats was comfort. She had learned, long ago, that if you named things beautifully enough, they hurt less.

Diary — Day 7

I walk for hours and don’t get tired. I think my legs are used to carrying hope. I imagine each shop saying yes, even when they don’t.

The rejections were gentle, mostly.

A shake of the head. A smile apologizing for something personal. A finger pointing to a sign that read Nous n’embauchons pas.

Once, a café owner looked at her papers, looked at her face, and said kindly, “Come back in a year.”

She thanked him as if he had offered her a gift.

At seventeen, May understood more than people expected—but less than she thought she did. She knew her father had chosen differently. She knew love could be rationed like money. She knew that being useful was safer than being wanted.

But she still believed effort was magic.

At night, she called Australia when the time difference allowed.

Her mother sounded tired, but proud. Her sisters fought over who got to speak first. The youngest asked if Paris had castles. May said yes, because in a way, it did.

Her father did not call.

She told herself it was because he was busy. She told herself many things.

Diary — Day 10

I think if I work hard enough, everything will make sense. Jesus, please help me understand why some people stay and some people go.

The television in the living room was old and heavy, the kind that hummed faintly even when turned off. French news filled the evenings—serious men discussing serious problems, images of strikes, prices, distant wars.

May watched intently, proud of how much she understood.

Language felt like a rope she could hold onto. Each sentence she caught made her feel less lost, more anchored. She repeated phrases quietly to herself, tasting them.

Mamie Jeanne sometimes fell asleep mid-broadcast, her knitting slipping to the floor. May would drape a blanket over her and feel, for a moment, like the adult in the room.

One afternoon, rain followed her home.

It soaked through her shoes, crept up her socks, chilled her ankles. By the time she reached the house, her toes were numb. She laughed as she peeled everything off, laying her shoes near the heater like tired animals.

“That’s Paris,” Élodie said. “It teaches you humility.”

May smiled. Humility felt familiar.

That night, she wrote until her hand cramped.

Diary — Day 14

If I don’t think of money as a monster, it becomes smaller. I think that’s how you survive. I think that’s how Mum survived too.

On Sundays, they went to church.

It was small and quiet, tucked between buildings like it was hiding. May liked that. The candles flickered uncertainly, and the pews creaked when people sat. She prayed with her eyes open, studying the light.

Her prayers were practical.

Work. Strength. A future.

She did not ask for miracles. She asked for direction.

Walking home afterward, Montreuil felt softer. Bells rang somewhere. The air smelled of rain and bread again. May skipped one step, then caught herself, embarrassed—but no one was watching.

She was seventeen. She had lost things. She was still allowed to skip.

Diary — Day 18

I think God walks these streets too. I think He likes small houses and people who try.

By the end of the second week, she had not found work.

But she had found routes. Shortcuts. Friendly faces. A rhythm.

She had found a way to make each day feel like a chapter instead of a sentence cut short.

And that, for now, was enough.

100 Days in May

Chapter One – Part III: The Soft Arrival of Want

Hunger did not arrive dramatically.

It came the way fog does—thin at first, almost polite, easy to pretend wasn’t there if you didn’t look directly at it.

At seventeen, May knew hunger as a concept long before she knew it as a presence. In Australia, there had been nights when dinner was smaller than expected, when her mother pretended not to be hungry, when toast became a meal instead of a side. But here, in Montreuil, hunger wore a different face. It was quieter. More private. Almost well-mannered.

It showed up as lightheadedness halfway through her walks.

As the strange excitement she felt standing outside bakeries too long.

As the way her stomach tightened when Élodie said, “We’ll eat later,” and meant it honestly, not carelessly.

May responded by shrinking her needs.

She told herself she preferred coffee to breakfast. That soup was enough for dinner. That being slightly empty made her feel lighter, faster, more alert—like she was tuned to a higher frequency of effort.

She did not tell her mother. She did not tell her sisters. She did not tell God—not yet.

Diary — Day 23

I think my body is adjusting to France. People here eat small things and smoke and drink coffee. I can do that too.

The near-job appeared on a Wednesday.

It was a small clothing shop on a side street she had not yet claimed as part of her kingdom. Dresses hung in the window like tired ghosts, pale and patient. A handwritten sign said Besoin d’aide.

May stood outside for a full minute, heart pounding, rehearsing her French in her head until the words felt smooth enough not to betray her.

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of dust and perfume.

The woman behind the counter was older, her hair pulled back tightly, her expression sharp but not unkind. She looked May up and down—not cruelly, just thoroughly.

“You can start tomorrow,” she said after a few questions. “Trial week.”

The word tomorrow landed in May’s chest like a bell.

She walked home without touching the ground.

Montreuil transformed around her—brighter, friendlier, full of secret congratulations. The bakery woman smiled at her. The stray cat crossed her path like a blessing. Even the cracked pavement seemed intentional, like stepping-stones.

When she told Élodie, her aunt laughed and hugged her tightly.

“You see?” Élodie said. “I told you.”

Mamie Jeanne crossed herself and whispered, “Merci.”

That night, May ate more than usual and felt almost dizzy with relief.

Diary — Day 24

I have a job. I will send money home. I will go to school one day. Everything is beginning.

The trial week did not last a week.

On the second day, the woman frowned as she watched May struggle with the register. On the third, she corrected her French sharply, impatience creeping in like cold.

On the fourth morning, the woman sighed.

“You are sweet,” she said. “But I need someone faster. Older.”

May nodded immediately. She thanked her. She apologized, even though she wasn’t sure what for.

Outside, the street looked the same as it had the day before.

That felt unfair.

She walked home slowly this time, the magic dimmed but not gone. She told herself this was simply a test. That faith meant enduring small disappointments without bitterness.

Still, when she reached the house, she went straight to her room and lay on the bed without taking off her coat.

Diary — Day 28

I think hope is heavier than disappointment. When it falls, it bruises.

Her prayers changed shape.

They became quieter, more specific. Less polite.

She stopped kneeling and started lying flat on her back, staring at the slanted ceiling, talking as if Jesus were sitting beside her, tired too.

“I’m trying,” she whispered one night. “I’m not being lazy. I’m not asking for much.”

She did not cry often. Crying felt inefficient. Instead, she pressed her palms together until they ached, like she could squeeze an answer out of the silence.

Days passed.

She continued walking, but her routes shortened. Her shoes thinned. Her steps slowed.

Hunger became something she planned around, like weather.

She learned which days Mamie Jeanne cooked more. Which shops threw away bread late in the evening. Which streets had benches that didn’t demand energy she didn’t have.

Still, Montreuil kept offering itself to her like a story that refused to turn cruel.

The light slanted beautifully in the afternoons. Children laughed in languages she didn’t know. Someone practiced violin badly but sincerely from an open window.

May collected these moments like coins.

Diary — Day 33

If I write everything down, nothing disappears completely. I think this is why God made words.

On Sundays, church became less about gratitude and more about endurance.

She lit candles slowly, deliberately, as if each flame were a request she didn’t have the strength to speak aloud. She stayed after services, sitting alone, listening to the building breathe.

“Please,” she said once, barely louder than the echo. “Just show me where to stand.”

The answer, if it came, did not come loudly.

But she stood anyway.

By the end of the month, May was thinner. Not dramatically—just enough that her clothes shifted, her face sharpened, her eyes seemed too large.

Élodie noticed. Mamie Jeanne noticed.

They did not say much. Poverty had taught them when to speak and when not to.

That night, May dreamed of the Australian outback—vast and empty and honest. She woke with tears on her face and didn’t remember crying.

She wrote anyway.

Diary — Day 38

I still believe this is leading somewhere. I have to believe it. Otherwise, I don’t know how to walk tomorrow.

Montreuil remained magical.

Not because it was kind—but because May needed it to be.

And so it was.

100 Days in May

Chapter One – Part IV: When Someone Notices

May noticed him before she knew she had.

He was sitting on the low stone wall near the metro entrance, one foot up, jacket unzipped despite the cold, as if weather were merely a suggestion. Dark hair, carelessly intentional. The kind of face that made you look twice without meaning to. He wasn’t looking at her—not really—but when she passed, his eyes lifted briefly, curious, neutral, then gone.

That was all.

But it stayed with her longer than it should have.

She told herself it was nothing. People looked at each other all the time. Paris was full of faces, full of brief intersections that meant nothing. Still, as she walked on, her heart felt oddly alert, as if something had brushed past it.

Diary — Day 41

A boy looked at me today. I don’t think it meant anything. But it made the street feel different.

The next time she saw him, it was raining.

She stood under the narrow awning of a closed shop, waiting for the worst of it to pass, her coat damp and heavy. The street smelled like wet stone and old leaves. She was counting breaths—an old habit now—when a familiar voice said, lightly:

“You’re always walking.”

She turned.

It was him.

Up close, he was more striking than she remembered, but also more ordinary—faint circles under his eyes, a small scar near his eyebrow. He smiled like it was something he did often, but not carelessly.

“You’re always sitting,” she replied before she could stop herself.

He laughed. Not loudly. Just enough.

“I’m Luc,” he said. “You live around here.”

She nodded. “May.”

“Australian,” he guessed.

She blinked. “How did you—”

“You walk like someone who hasn’t decided to stop yet.”

That felt uncomfortably accurate.

They talked the way teenagers talk when neither wants to admit they’re nervous—circling topics, pretending ease. He told her he was finishing lycée. That his sister helped raise him. That work was impossible to find unless you already had it.

When May mentioned she was looking for work, his expression softened—not pity, but recognition.

“It’s hard,” he said. “People are tired. Everyone’s trying to survive. Most of us just invent something.”

“Invent?” she repeated.

“Oui. Self-employment. Small things. Selling things that don’t exist yet.”

The idea lodged itself somewhere deep.

Diary — Day 43

Luc says people here don’t wait to be chosen. They choose themselves. I like that.

Luc introduced her to his sister two days later.

Camille was older—twenty-two, sharp-eyed, with a cigarette perpetually unlit between her fingers. She listened more than she spoke, evaluating everything with a seriousness that made May sit up straighter.

They met in a café they couldn’t afford, ordered one drink between the three of them, and talked for hours.

Ideas spilled out awkwardly at first, then faster.

A small magazine for students—stories, faith, art, questions adults didn’t answer.

A clothing line with Christian symbols that weren’t loud—subtle, beautiful, wearable. Faith that looked like life, not posters.

Australian openness mixed with French style. Minimalism. Hand-printing. Second-hand materials.

“Cheap doesn’t mean ugly,” Camille said. “It means honest.”

May felt something awaken—something that wasn’t hope exactly, but agency.

Diary — Day 46

I think this is what people mean when they say calling. Not a job. A direction.

But exhaustion came for her before success did.

One evening, after walking all day, skipping meals without meaning to, she felt the world tilt suddenly, sharply. The street blurred. Sound pulled away like a tide.

She sat hard on the curb, breath shallow, heart racing too fast.

Luc knelt beside her immediately, his joking tone gone.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

She tried. Failed.

Someone handed her water. Someone else muttered about ambulances. She shook her head weakly, embarrassed by the attention, by her body’s betrayal.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, not convincing even herself.

That night, lying in bed, she shook uncontrollably—not from cold, but from the realization that she was not as invincible as she had pretended.

Diary — Day 49

I thought wanting something badly was enough. I forgot that bodies keep score.

The letter arrived two days later.

Australia, stamped and thin.

Her mother’s handwriting wavered.

Her youngest sister was sick again. Bills were stacking. Their father had stopped responding altogether.

We’re proud of you, her mother wrote. But don’t feel like you have to save us.

May folded the letter carefully and pressed it to her chest.

That night, something cracked.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just a quiet internal sound, like ice giving way.

She cried for the first time since leaving Australia—not efficiently, not silently, but the way children cry when they realize something can’t be fixed by trying harder.

Her prayers changed again.

They stopped being plans.

They became confessions.

“Jesus,” she whispered into her pillow, “I don’t know how to be strong anymore.”

Diary — Day 52

I think childhood is when you believe effort guarantees safety. I think that just ended.

In the days that followed, she still walked. Still imagined Montreuil as a kingdom.

But now she saw the cracks, too.

And instead of hiding them, she began to step carefully around them—learning not how to pretend, but how to endure.

Luc noticed the change. Camille did too.

Neither commented.

They began working anyway.

Because sometimes, building something—no matter how small—is how you survive the moment when belief breaks and something sturdier has to take its place.

100 Days in May

Chapter One – Part V: Choosing to Stay

The first thing they made was ugly.

Not offensively ugly—just earnest in the way beginners are earnest. A thin stack of folded pages, stapled too close to the edge, ink slightly smudged. Camille had insisted on calling it a zine, as if the name itself could grant legitimacy.

Luc wanted jokes. Camille wanted essays. May wanted stories.

They compromised badly and then kept going anyway.

They worked at the small kitchen table in May’s house, cats winding between chair legs like punctuation marks. Mamie Jeanne watched with amusement, occasionally offering tea they pretended not to need. Élodie shook her head at the mess but never told them to stop.

May wrote at night, when the house was quiet and her thoughts were loud.

She wrote about walking. About hunger disguised as independence. About faith that didn’t shout. About being seventeen and already tired.

She didn’t use her name.

Diary — Day 56

I don’t know if writing can feed you, but it keeps you upright.

They printed copies cheaply, pooling coins, arguing over fonts, laughing when the printer jammed. Camille designed a simple cover—black ink, clean lines, a small cross barely visible unless you looked for it.

They sold the first batch outside a school.

It was humiliating.

Most students ignored them completely. Some laughed. One boy bought a copy and immediately used it to fan himself dramatically. May’s face burned, but she forced herself to stand still, to breathe.

Then a girl stopped.

She flipped through the pages slowly, seriously.

“This is nice,” she said, surprised. “This is… different.”

She paid. She smiled. She left holding it carefully.

That single sale felt heavier than money.

Hunger did not disappear.

But it changed shape again—became shared, discussed, planned around. Camille taught May how to stretch meals. Luc showed up with bread more often than he admitted.

Once, when May tried to refuse food out of habit, Luc looked at her sharply.

“You don’t disappear to succeed,” he said. “Promise me that.”

She promised, even though promises felt fragile lately.

Diary — Day 60

People think independence means doing everything alone. I think it just means choosing who you let help.

The fashion idea came next.

It was May’s—half-remembered from Australia, half-born from necessity. Simple shirts. Neutral colors. Small stitched symbols. Clothes you could wear without announcing anything.

Faith without performance.

They borrowed a sewing machine. They ruined fabric. They learned.

Camille was ruthless about quality. Luc was reckless with ideas. May became the bridge—translating imagination into something people could touch.

It was slow. It paid almost nothing.

But it was theirs.

Exhaustion still waited for her some evenings.

One night, walking home alone, her legs simply refused. She sat on a step, head in her hands, breath coming shallow again. For a moment, fear returned—sharp, animal.

She prayed out loud, not caring who heard.

“Please,” she said. “Just let me make it home.”

She did.

That felt like a victory now.

The next letter from Australia was shorter.

Her mother said things were harder. That May shouldn’t worry. That her sisters missed her.

May folded the letter neatly and placed it under her mattress, like something sacred and dangerous.

She didn’t cry this time.

Instead, she walked the next morning with intention.

Diary — Day 67

I can’t go back yet. I’m not running anymore. I’m staying.

That was the turning point—not loud, not dramatic.

Just a decision made quietly while crossing the street, dodging bicycles, breathing in the smell of bread and rain.

She would stay.

Not because it was easy. Not because it was magical.

But because something had begun here that belonged to her.

Her faith settled into something sturdier—not expectation, but trust without guarantees. Jesus became less a rescuer and more a companion, walking beside her through days that didn’t resolve neatly.

Montreuil remained a kingdom—but now she knew kingdoms had taxes, hunger, and long winters.

And she stayed anyway.