Chapter 1
Adjusting the strap of my trench coat, I took one last look in the full-length mirror. Black turtleneck, pleated skirt, neat loafers, and a perfectly pinched red beret. Classic French vibes. If I was going to feel like a complete fraud on my first day at a Paris university, I was at least going to look the part.
My phone buzzed on the desk. A video call from Mom and Dad. I swiped to answer.
"Oh, look at you!" Mom gasped, her face taking up the entire screen. "You look so... chic! Doesn't she look chic, David?"
Dad leaned into the frame, squinting. "Very French, sweetie. Are you warm enough?"
"I'm fine, Dad. It’s a ten-minute walk."
"It gets breezy near the Seine, you know. Did you pack the heavy scarf?"
"Dad, yes. It's in the closet."
"And your umbrella?" Mom chimed in. "The forecast said—"
"I have it in my tote," I laughed, forcing a smile to hide the knot tightening in my stomach. "I promise. Look, I have to run or I'll be late for the orientation."
"We are so proud of you," Mom said, her eyes getting misty. "Call us the second it's over?"
"I will. Love you guys."
Ten minutes later, the iron gates of the university loomed over me. The courtyard was a swirling vortex of students moving with absolute confidence. Groups were already laughing, smoking, and speaking rapid-fire French that sounded nothing like my practice audiobooks.
My confidence evaporated. I clutched my bag and stepped into the grand, echoing hallway of the main building, completely turned around.
Amphithéâtre Descartes. Where on earth...
"You look lost."
I jumped, turning to see a guy with messy curls and a denim jacket leaning against a marble pillar. He had a campus map tucked under his arm.
"Is it that obvious?" I stammered, my American accent crashing through the vowels.
"A little," he smiled. "Where are you trying to go?"
"Amphithéâtre Descartes? For Intro to Political Science."
"Ah. Wrong wing."
"Oh, great." I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Of course it is."
"Don't panic. I'm heading there too. I'm Lucas."
"Chloe."
"Nice to meet you, Chloe. Follow me." He started walking, gesturing for me to keep up. "So, where’s the accent from? Definitely not England."
"Chicago."
"Ah! Skyscrapers. Deep-dish pizza."
"And terrible winters, yeah."
Lucas chuckled, navigating a sharp turn down a crowded corridor. "Well, welcome to Paris. Though, I have to say... the beret?"
"What about it?" My guard went up. "Is it too much?"
"It’s a bit cliché."
"It's classic!" a new voice countered.
A girl with sharp eyeliner and a vintage leather jacket caught up to our pace, falling into step right next to me.
"Ignore him," she said to me. "He has zero style. I’m Manon."
"Chloe," I said, a bit breathless from the pace.
"Don't mind Lucas," Manon said, throwing him a look. "He wore a tracksuit to his sister's wedding."
"It was designer!" Lucas protested.
"It was shiny, Lucas. There is a difference." Manon turned back to me. "I think the look is cute. Very cinematic. Are you adjusting okay? The bureaucracy here is a nightmare."
"I haven't even tried to get my student ID yet," I admitted.
"Oh, brace yourself," Lucas called out over his shoulder. "The line takes three hours."
"Four," Manon corrected.
"And they lose your paperwork at least once."
"Twice if you're foreign."
I stopped in my tracks. "Are you guys joking?"
Manon laughed, grabbing my arm to pull me along. "Mostly. Don't let him scare you. Look, we're here."
Lucas pushed open a set of heavy wooden double doors. Inside, a massive, tiered lecture hall was buzzing with voices. Hundreds of students were finding their seats, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.
"Told you we'd make it," Lucas said, looking back at me. "Plenty of seats in the middle row. Want to join?"
I looked at the giant hall, then at the two of them waiting for my answer. The ocean separating me from home suddenly felt just a tiny bit smaller.
"Definitely," I said.
.... . . . . ....................
Two hours later, the professor finally closed his laptop, and the collective groan of two hundred exhausted students echoed through the amphitheater. The lecture had been a grueling marathon of dry dates and legal definitions.
Manon slumped back in her seat, staring at the ceiling. "I think my brain just melted. Is it legal for a human being to be that boring?"
"It’s an art form, really," Lucas muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I think I fell asleep with my eyes open for twenty minutes."
"Only twenty?" I asked, packing my notebook into my tote.
We shuffled out of the lecture hall together, joining the slow-moving river of students pouring into the sunny courtyard. The fresh air was an instant relief. As the crowd began to split up, I looked between the two of them, curious about their dynamic.
"So," I started, shifting my bag on my shoulder. "Are you guys friends?"
"No," Lucas said instantly.
"Yes," Manon countered at the exact same time.
I blinked, looking from Lucas’s completely blank expression to Manon, who was now glaring at him. "Uh. Okay?"
"We've known each other since we were five," Manon explained, crossing her arms and fixing Lucas with a sharp look. "Our moms are literally best friends. Don't be weird, Lucas."
Lucas shifted his weight, his eyes suddenly darting over toward a group of guys leaning against the courtyard wall. His casual, easygoing demeanor from earlier seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden, distant coldness.
"Yeah," Lucas said, his voice dropping a register as he took a half-step back. "Just friends."
"Lucas, what is your problem today?" Manon sighed, rolling her eyes.
"Nothing. I just... I see my guys over there," he said shortly, nodding toward the group. He didn't look at either of us as he stepped away. "See you around, Chloe."
Before I could even reply, he turned on his heel and walked off, slipping seamlessly into the crowd of guys who greeted him with loud shouts and fist bumps.
I watched him go, completely thrown off by the sudden shift. "Did I say something wrong?"
Manon sighed, her sharp eyeliner wrinkling as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I don't know," she muttered, watching his back as he walked away. "He's always like this. I don't know why he doesn't like me talking about our friendship."
"Really?" I asked, looking back and forth between her and the loud group of guys Lucas had just joined. "But you've known each other since you were five."
"Exactly! It makes no sense." She threw her hands up in frustration. "One minute we're fine, and the next, if anyone asks, he acts like I’m a stranger he accidentally bumped into on the metro."
"Is it because of his friends?"
"Who knows with him," Manon scoffed, though her voice softened, carrying a hint of genuine hurt. "He gets around those guys and suddenly he has a reputation to keep up. Heaven forbid anyone thinks he hangs out with a girl who knew him when he used to cry over scraped knees."
I frowned, feeling a sudden wave of sympathy for her. "That sucks, Manon. I'm sorry."
"Eh, don't worry about it," she said, quickly shaking off the mood with a sharp, practiced smile. "His loss. We don't need him anyway. Come on, let's go get a coffee before the next class. I know a place nearby that doesn't charge tourist prices."
. . . ....... ... .. .. ............... ... . ..
We walked out of the tiny, crowded café holding two iced coffees, the plastic cups sweating in the midday heat. Manon was already halfway through a sentence about our upcoming history syllabus when it happened.
A man in a sharp grey suit, furiously typing on his phone, rounded the corner at full speed.
Smack.
He plowed right into my shoulder. The impact sent my grip slipping, and a wave of sticky, dark iced coffee splashed violently through the air, drenching the front of my white trench coat and splattering all over his pristine white button-down shirt.
"Oh! Mon Dieu!" the man gasped, freezing in shock as he looked down at the massive brown stain blooming across his chest. He dropped his phone onto the pavement. "I am so sorry! I was not looking, I—"
"No, no! I'm so sorry!" I blurted out, my hands flying up in panic.
Manon stared at me, her jaw dropping. "Chloe, he ran right into you!"
"It's not your mistake!" I insisted to the man, frantically grabbing a napkin from my bag and handing it to him. "You just bumped into me. The coffee spilling is my mistake. I was the one holding a cup of coffee!"
The man stopped wiping his shirt, looking at me like I had spoken to him in ancient Greek. "Wait... what?"
"If I wasn't holding it so loosely, it wouldn't have spilled," I explained rapidly, my cheeks burning. "So really, it’s on me. I'm so sorry about your shirt."
Manon let out a loud, dramatic groan, slapping her forehead. "Are you seriously apologizing for getting run over? Chloe, you are way too nice for Paris."
The man stared at me, the wet napkin frozen in his hand. Manon just blinked, her mouth slightly open.
"Chloe," Manon said slowly. "You have coffee on your shoes."
"No, think about it," I said, gesturing with my empty, dripping plastic cup. "It's on me. It's my choice to fill this cup with coffee. So when it fell, coffee came out."
The man blinked. "Mademoiselle, I broke your drink."
"But it could have been empty," I insisted, looking at him. "It could have been water."
"But it was coffee," Manon countered, crossing her arms.
"Exactly!" I said, my voice rising with sudden energy. "It's my choice to decide what will come out if it's spilled. Just like our lives. It's our choice to decide what will come out when we fall in life."
The man slowly lowered the napkin, completely captivated now. "What do you mean?"
"When life bumps into you and shakes you up," I said, looking down at my ruined white coat, then back up at him. "Whatever is inside you is what's going to spill out. Some people choose failure, heartbreak, sadness..."
"And they yell at strangers on the street," Manon muttered, casting a pointed glance at the man.
"But there are some," the man interrupted softly, a sudden warmth hitting his eyes, "who choose happiness. Calm. Learnings."
"Yes!" I smiled, nodding eagerly. "Exactly."
"Wow," the man said, looking down at his drenched, expensive shirt, then letting out a sudden, loud laugh. "I left my apartment today stressed about a board meeting, ran into a student, and got a philosophy lesson."
"A very sticky philosophy lesson," Manon added, though she was smiling now too.
"I am Jean-Luc," he said, offering a clean, dry hand. "And I think you just saved my morning from being miserable, Chloe."
"Just trying to keep my cup full of the right things," I laughed, shaking his hand.
Jean-Luc let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Actually, I am a senior student. Today I needed to present a PPT to the board members on behalf of the university program." He looked down at his ruined shirt. "But... I think I am now messed up."
I turned to Manon to see if she had any tissues, but she was frozen. Totally captivated.
Her gaze was locked onto him, completely fascinated. Up close, Jean-Luc was striking. He had these incredibly expressive hazel eyes, a tall physique, and a lean, masculine body that filled out his suit perfectly. Even his voice had this rough, deep tone that made my speech about coffee cups feel suddenly very small. He easily had the most handsome face I'd seen since landing in France.
"Messed up?" Manon echoed, her voice suddenly dropping an octave, losing all its previous sharpness. "No. Not at all."
Jean-Luc gave a bitter laugh. "I look like I wore my breakfast."
"It's... it's a statement," Manon stammered, her cheeks turning a faint pink. "Very abstract. Modern."
I choked back a laugh. "Manon, it's a giant brown stain."
"It shows resilience!" she shot back rapidly, glare-smiling at me before snapping her attention back to Jean-Luc. "You went through a crisis and you're still standing. The board will love the realism."
Jean-Luc looked between the two of us, a slow smile breaking across his face. "You think so?"
"Absolutely," Manon said quickly. "What's the presentation on?"
"The international student integration budget."
"See? Perfect," Manon said, stepping a little closer. "Chloe here is an international student. You can just tell them you were doing hands-on research."
"Fieldwork," I added, amused by her sudden, intense enthusiasm.
"Exactly, fieldwork," Manon agreed, her hazel eyes locked onto his.
Jean-Luc checked his watch, his eyes widening. "Mon Dieu, I have seven minutes."
"Go!" Manon urged, practically beaming. "Kill it!"
"Thank you, Chloe. And thank you..." He paused, looking at Manon.
"Manon," she said, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
"Thank you, Manon," he repeated, his rough voice sending a visible shiver down her spine. He turned and sprinted back toward the main building.
We watched him go until he disappeared through the heavy doors.
"Earth to Manon," I said, nudging her shoulder.
"Shut up," she breathed, still staring at the empty doorway. "I think I just met the love of my life."
"Manon!"
The sharp shout cut through Manon's trance. We both turned to see Lucas jogging back across the courtyard, his denim jacket swinging. The distant, cold attitude he had displayed just ten minutes ago was completely gone, replaced by a strange, hyperactive energy.
"What do you want, Lucas?" Manon asked, her voice instantly snapping back to its usual sharp edge. "I thought you were with 'your guys.'"
"They're going to the library. Boring," Lucas said, stopping right in front of us and completely ignoring me. "Come on. Let's get lunch. My treat."
Manon blinked, caught off guard. "Lunch? Now?"
"Yeah, now. I'm starving. And after that, we need to pick up those history books, and then there's that bistro near the canal for dinner—"
"Wait, dinner too?" Manon interrupted, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite herself. "Are you kidnapping me for the whole day?"
"Pretty much. Let’s go," Lucas said, already grabbing her wrist and pulling her along.
Manon stumbled after him, throwing a frantic look over her shoulder at me. "Chloe! Wait, are you coming?"
"Go ahead!" I called out with a wave, gesturing to my front. "I need to go back to my apartment anyway and change out of this coffee-stained coat."
"Are you sure?" Manon shouted back as Lucas practically dragged her toward the gates. "I'll text you later!"
"I'm sure! Have fun!"
Within seconds, they disappeared into the Parisian crowd, leaving me standing alone in the bustling courtyard.
I looked down at my sticky, ruined white trench coat and let out a long breath. Classic French vibes, indeed.
The ten-minute walk back to my studio apartment felt much longer this time. The initial movie-like magic of the morning had faded, replaced by the heavy, exhausting reality of my new life. I unlocked my heavy iron door, stepped inside, and tossed my bag onto the desk.
The apartment was dead silent.
I peeled off the stained coat and sat on the edge of my small bed, staring at the empty walls. Just a few hours ago, I was surrounded by rapid-fire French, confusing hallways, dramatic friendship dynamics, and philosophical coffee spills. Now, the silence of the room reminded me exactly how far away from home I really was.
My phone buzzed on the mattress beside me. I picked it up, expecting a text from Manon.
Instead, it was a message from Mom: Thinking of you! How was the first day?
I stared at the screen, a bittersweet smile forming on my face. I opened the camera, took a selfie holding up my ruined, coffee-stained coat, and started typing.
