The morning after their kiss was painted in a cruel shade of silence.
Alina sat by her window, wrapped in a knitted shawl, her tea long gone cold. The sky outside Paris was as grey as her thoughts. Rain tapped gently against the glass, mocking her restlessness. Her eyes, red from lack of sleep, scanned the empty street below.
Evander was gone.
No message. No goodbye. No sign.
She had knocked on his door at least five times, her fists trembling each time, expecting him to open it with that usual smirk or sarcastic comment—but there was only silence. The kind that screamed.
Her mind was a carousel of last night's chaos. The kiss. The way his lips found hers like they'd been waiting. The hesitation. The heat. The gasp they both shared. And then… the distance.
It played in her head again, uninvited.
They stood too close, breaths tangled in the hallway's quiet. He looked at her like she wasn't the same girl he argued with every day. She looked at him like he wasn't the man she was supposed to hate. And then their lips met—not soft or sweet, but desperate and unsure.
And now he was gone.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, as if trying to wipe away the memory.
Why do I keep thinking about it?
It was just a kiss. People kiss all the time.
But this one… it was different. It wasn't planned, and it wasn't supposed to feel like that. Her heart had skipped more than just a beat. It had leapt into a space she didn't know existed.
"Why did he leave?" she whispered to no one.
Unable to sit still, she grabbed her coat and stepped into the cold morning air. The streets of Montmartre were quieter than usual, washed clean by the rain. Her boots splashed through shallow puddles as she wandered aimlessly—hoping to spot his familiar silhouette, hoping it was all just a misunderstanding.
She went to his favorite café.
The barista shook her head. "He hasn't come in today. Everything alright?"
Alina forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… checking."
She then walked to the bookstore he used to visit. The owner, an old man with kind eyes, said he hadn't seen Evander in two days.
Two days?
But they kissed just last night.
Time began to bend strangely. Was it possible he had planned to leave even before their kiss?
She returned to their building, defeated. Her heart ached from the weight of confusion. As she walked past his apartment, something on the floor caught her eye. A crumpled, slightly torn piece of paper.
She picked it up.
It was a corner of a map. A red mark circled a small location near the Seine River—no name, just an 'X'.
Her heart skipped. Was this a clue?
She tucked it into her coat and rushed back to her flat, her fingers trembling as she opened her diary and flattened the paper inside. She stared at it like it was some lost treasure map leading to the truth.
As the golden hour light filtered through her curtains, she stood at the spot marked on the map.
It led her to an old bridge overlooking the Seine. The kind of place poets wrote about and lovers often found themselves at during confessions and farewells.
But there was no Evander.
Just wind, river, and memories.
Her hands gripped the railing as she looked at the rippling water below, her mind sinking deeper.
Why does this matter so much to me? she wondered.
Why do I care?
They weren't even friends. They bickered. They barely spoke kindly to each other. And yet… the silence he left behind felt louder than any fight they ever had.
Am I falling for him? The question echoed like a whisper she didn't want to hear.
She stared into the river, watching how the water caught the last bit of sunlight. Everything looked calm on the surface—but deep down, it was moving fast. Wild. Conflicted.
Just like her heart.
Returning home that night, she felt heavy. Every step toward her apartment felt lonelier than the last.
And then—she saw it.
A cream-colored envelope lying at her doorstep. No name. Just her apartment number scrawled in black ink.
She picked it up, her pulse racing.
Inside was a single card.
"He's safer far from you."
Her breath caught. The world tilted.
She read it again. And again.
He's safer far from you.
Who wrote this?
Her thoughts raced—was it someone from Evander's past? Or hers? Why would someone think he was in danger because of her?
Was this why he left?
She stumbled back, the note clenched in her shaking hands, and shut her door behind her. Her vision blurred. Her chest tightened.
Why did this feel like the beginning of something darker?
She sank to the floor, back against the wall, and let the tears fall. Not just from heartbreak. From fear. From helplessness. From not knowing what—or who—was coming next.
She clutched the map piece, her tears smudging its ink. "Come back to me," she whispered, voice barely audible.
But the silence answered again.
That night, sleep found her in pieces. When it did, it brought a dream.
She stood at the same bridge again—only this time, it was foggy. The river was still. A voice called her name. "Alina…"
She turned.
Evander stood on the other side of the bridge, unreachable.
He looked the same—tired eyes, but a soft smile.
She tried to walk toward him, but her feet wouldn't move.
"Don't trust them," he said softly, the fog swallowing his voice.
"Evander!" she shouted, desperate.
But he was already fading.
She jolted awake, drenched in sweat, the echo of his voice still clinging to her skin.
And somewhere between the ache in her chest and the echo in her apartment, a darker question began to form in her mind:
What if he didn't leave on his own?