Chapter 3 — Colliding Paths
The Dreamer
The door of the Dreamer’s hotel clicked shut behind her, muffling the distant hum of Parisian traffic. She let her suitcase slip from her hand and exhaled deeply, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. The flight had left her drained, but it was the unexpected encounter with the Pragmatist that truly unsettled her. She had spent years carefully compartmentalizing their shared history, yet with one turbulent flight and a few exchanged glances, it all threatened to unravel.
Tugging at her scarf, she loosened it as she moved toward the window. The Eiffel Tower’s silhouette pierced the twilight, its iron lattice glowing gold against a sky streaked with indigo and amber. The sight should have stirred excitement, perhaps even inspiration for the days ahead. Instead, it left her hollow, the beauty outside clashing with the unease within.
A knock at the door broke her thoughts. She hesitated, then crossed the room to open it. A bellhop stood there, an envelope balanced on a silver tray.
“A message for you, madame,” he said with a practiced smile.
She thanked him, took the envelope, and closed the door. Sliding her finger under the flap, she unfolded the note inside.
“Shared taxis to the conference leave from the lobby at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Please notify the front desk if you plan to join.”
She sighed, setting the note on the desk. The idea of sharing a confined space with the Pragmatist again made her stomach twist, but practicality won out. Paris traffic was implacable, and the conference venue wasn’t within walking distance. She glanced at her scarf resting on the desk, her fingers brushing the fabric briefly before tightening into a fist. It felt like armor—something to steady her.
The next morning, the Dreamer descended the grand staircase into the hotel lobby. Her scarf was tied neatly around her neck, a deliberate statement of composure, and she clutched her leather portfolio with both hands. The lobby buzzed with the subdued energy of professionals preparing for the day—muted conversations, the soft rustle of papers, the occasional clinking of porcelain cups.
She spotted the Pragmatist near the entrance, his tall frame unmistakable even in the crowd. He was speaking with a young woman who held a map, his gestures precise as he pointed out directions. His calm, measured tone carried faintly across the lobby, though she couldn’t make out his words.
She lingered near a potted plant, debating whether to slip unnoticed into a different taxi. But before she could act, his gaze lifted and met hers. A flicker of recognition passed between them, unspoken but undeniable. His expression softened into something unreadable, and he gave a small nod. Reflexively, she nodded back, adjusting her scarf as if it might anchor her fluttering thoughts.
The ride to the conference was tense, though neither of them said a word. The Pragmatist sat on the far end of the backseat, with three other passengers acting as a buffer. The Dreamer kept her focus on the window, where Paris unfolded like a living painting—wrought iron balconies, colorful awnings, sunlit squares bustling with life.
“Beautiful morning,” one of the other passengers remarked, breaking the silence.
“It is,” the Pragmatist replied simply, his voice low but steady.
The Dreamer’s grip on her portfolio tightened. He had always been succinct, his words economical, yet they carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. She found herself wondering if he was as composed as he seemed or if, beneath the surface, he was as unsettled as she felt.
The conference itself was a blur of panel discussions and polite networking. One speaker discussed the parallels between art and architecture, and her thoughts drifted unbidden to the Pragmatist—to the way his eyes used to light up when explaining a design, his sketches meticulous and alive with possibility. She glanced across the room once, but he seemed preoccupied, his expression distant. That spark she remembered was absent, dimmed somehow, and it left her with a peculiar ache she couldn’t quite name.
By the time the conference ended, she was eager to retreat to her room. But as she entered the hotel lobby that evening, she spotted him again. He was seated at one of the low tables, a coffee cup in hand, his leather-bound sketchbook open before him.
She paused at the threshold, torn between retreating and approaching. Something in his posture—slightly hunched, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the page—caught her off guard. He looked less like the man she remembered and more like someone lost in thought, untethered.
“Sketching again?” she asked, her tone light but edged with something sharper as she stepped closer.
He looked up, startled, then closed the sketchbook with deliberate slowness. “It helps me think,” he said evenly.
“About what?”
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the coffee cup. “About how things could have been different.”
Her breath caught, the words hitting harder than she expected. She shifted her weight, suddenly unsure of why she had approached in the first place.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, taking a step back.
“You didn’t,” he said quickly. Then, as if realizing how his words might sound, he added, “I mean, it’s fine. Really.”
Her eyes flicked to the edge of the sketchbook, where the faint outline of a Parisian bridge was visible. A memory stirred—of sitting along the Seine, sketching together in their journal, her lines uneven and his precise. She pushed the thought aside and nodded curtly.
The silence stretched until a waiter arrived to clear his table. She used the interruption as an excuse to retreat, her steps brisk as she headed toward the elevators.
The next morning, she sought solace in the cozy embrace of Café des Rencontres, hoping for a quiet breakfast before the whirlwind of exhibit preparations. The café was warm, the air rich with the aroma of fresh croissants and strong coffee. She chose a table by the window, where sunlight spilled through the glass, dappling the wooden surface.
She had just opened her notebook when a familiar voice broke through her thoughts.
“Mind if I join you?”
Her gaze snapped up to find the Pragmatist standing there with a coffee cup in hand. His expression was unreadable, his posture hesitant. For a moment, she considered refusing, guarding the fragile bubble of solitude she had carved out for herself. But something in his eyes—a quiet vulnerability, an unspoken question—stilled her.
“Suit yourself,” she said, gesturing to the empty chair.
He sat down, setting his cup on the table. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the murmur of conversation and the clinking of silverware filling the silence.
“You always loved places like this,” he said finally, his voice soft.
She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Small, quiet cafés. You said they felt more real than the big, touristy spots.”
She tilted her head, surprised. “You remember that?”
He smiled faintly. “I remember a lot of things.”
Her chest tightened at the quiet sincerity of his words. She turned her attention to her coffee, willing her heartbeat to steady.
“Paris hasn’t changed much, has it?” he said, shifting the conversation.
“No,” she replied. “It hasn’t.”
But we have, she thought, though the words remained unsaid.
Their conversation meandered through safe topics—art, architecture, the quirks of Parisian culture. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt easy, as if they were simply old friends catching up over coffee. But the weight of their history lingered, unspoken yet palpable, like a shadow cast over the table.
As he sketched absentmindedly on a napkin, her gaze caught on the shape forming beneath his pen—a partial outline of the Seine. Her breath hitched as the memory resurfaced: the two of them by the river, laughing at her crooked lines, the pages of their shared journal smudged with graphite and sunlight.
When they parted ways outside the café, the morning light softened the edges of the city around them. Yet, as she watched him disappear into the crowd, she couldn’t shake the feeling that their paths were far from finished colliding.
