Chapter 1 — Unwelcome Reunion
Third Person
The low hum of the airplane engines filled the cabin, a steady backdrop to the muffled voices of passengers settling into their seats, the occasional rustle of carry-ons being stowed, and the faint clink of a stewardess adjusting the drinks trolley. Amélie Laurent slid her sleek leather carry-on into the overhead compartment with practiced precision, her movements deliberate, controlled. She adjusted the lapel of her tailored charcoal-gray blazer—a color she chose for its practicality and neutrality—and smoothed her high-waisted trousers before settling into the window seat.
The window seat. Her favorite. She had booked it weeks ago, a small luxury she could control amid the chaos of constant deadlines and looming expectations. Letting out a quiet breath, she allowed herself to envision the sanctuary of the flight ahead: pulling out her sketchbook, losing herself in the lines and curves of her designs for the boutique hotel in Montmartre. The project, though still little more than exposed beams and scaffolding, was already vivid in her mind. This was her chance to prove herself again—a magnum opus that would silence both her critics and her own self-doubt. The thought steadied her.
Her gaze shifted briefly to the empty aisle seat beside her, and she indulged in a fleeting moment of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would have the row to herself, a pocket of solitude to sketch, think, and leave the rest of the world far below the clouds.
Hope shattered the moment she heard his voice.
“Excusez-moi, that’s my seat.”
Her hand, poised to unzip her bag, froze mid-motion. Slowly, as though willing to delay the inevitable, she turned her head.
Julien Moreau stood in the aisle, one hand gripping the strap of a weathered messenger bag, the other holding his boarding pass. His tousled blond hair was slightly disheveled, as though he’d run his fingers through it in frustration. His piercing blue eyes—sharp, familiar, and far too perceptive—met hers, and for a moment that stretched far too long, neither of them spoke. His gaze softened, though a flicker of surprise lingered there.
“Amélie,” he said finally, his voice low, tinged with disbelief.
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to speak, her tone clipped and controlled. “Julien.” Quickly, she looked away, feigning sudden interest in the safety card tucked into the seat pocket in front of her. Maybe if she ignored him, he would vanish.
But Julien did not vanish. After a brief hesitation, his movements unhurried, he slid into the seat beside her, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. As though they hadn’t been estranged for years. As though they hadn’t once shared a life—and walked away from it.
Amélie tightened her grip on her sketchbook, the pressure turning her knuckles white. “Of all the flights, of all the seats...” she murmured under her breath, more to herself than to him.
“Life does have a way of surprising us, doesn’t it?” he replied, his tone light yet carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken.
She didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the window. The tarmac stretched endlessly outside, planes lined up like silent sentinels. She wished she could be out there, boarding a different flight, away from him and the memories he brought with him.
The silence between them stretched, growing heavier with each passing second, until Julien broke it. “So. Paris,” he said casually, as if making conversation with a stranger.
She turned to him then, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Yes, Julien. Paris. It’s where this flight is going.”
His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners. “Still sharp as ever.”
“And you’re still insufferable,” she snapped before she could stop herself. Immediately, she regretted it. She didn’t want to engage, didn’t want to let him under her skin. But he always had a way of coaxing out her sharp edges, even when she wanted to bury them.
Julien leaned back in his seat, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. “Good to know some things haven’t changed,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his eyes flickered with something deeper.
The plane began to taxi, the cabin lights dimming as the safety demonstration played on the overhead screens. Amélie tried to focus on the monotone voice explaining seatbelts and oxygen masks, but Julien’s presence beside her was an unavoidable gravitational pull. When his arm brushed hers briefly as he adjusted his bag under the seat, she clenched her fists, hating the way her body betrayed her, every nerve attuned to him.
“So,” Julien said again after a moment, his voice softer now, almost tentative. “How have you been?”
Her jaw tightened as she turned to him. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he repeated, skepticism lacing his tone. “That’s all?”
“Yes, Julien. Fine. Some of us don’t feel the need to narrate every detail of our lives.”
His brows lifted, and for a fleeting second, she thought she saw hurt flash across his face. But then it was gone, replaced by his usual easygoing demeanor. “Strangers, huh?” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize we’d fallen that far.”
Her chest tightened, but she refused to let him see it. “What did you think would happen, Julien? That we’d still send each other postcards?”
He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice had lost its teasing edge. “I didn’t think anything. I just… I didn’t expect this.”
“This,” she echoed bitterly, her voice dropping. “This is what happens when people fail each other.”
The silence that followed was heavier this time, laden with the weight of everything unsaid. She turned back to the window, her reflection faint against the darkening sky. She hated the way her voice had trembled, the way her carefully cultivated walls felt too thin, too flimsy.
The turbulence hit without warning.
The plane jolted violently, and gasps rippled through the cabin. Amélie’s hand shot out instinctively, gripping the armrest. A second jolt followed, harder, and she felt Julien’s hand cover hers, warm and steady.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low, calming. “Just a little turbulence.”
She didn’t pull away. She told herself it was because she needed the stability, not because his touch felt familiar, grounding. For a moment, it was as though the chaos outside mirrored the jumble inside her, his hand the only steady thing. The turbulence subsided after a few tense moments, but still, she didn’t move. Neither did he.
When she finally looked at him, his blue eyes were searching hers, and for a moment, the years between them seemed to dissolve. She saw the man she had fallen in love with, the man who had once made her believe in forever. And then she saw the cracks, the fractures that had pulled them apart.
She withdrew her hand sharply, her voice trembling with anger—or was it fear? “Don’t.”
He looked at her, confused. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Don’t act like we can just… pick up where we left off.”
“I’m not,” he said, his tone defensive. “I’m just—”
“Just reminding me of everything I’ve spent years trying to forget?”
The words hung in the air, cutting and final. Julien leaned back, his expression guarded now. He didn’t respond, and she was grateful for it.
The rest of the flight passed in silence, thick with tension. Amélie tried to focus on her sketchbook, but her lines were unsteady, her thoughts scattered. Julien, meanwhile, stared out at the clouds, his fingers absently tracing the strap of his messenger bag.
As the plane began its descent, Amélie tucked her sketchbook away and straightened her blazer. She was ready to leave, to put this flight—and Julien—behind her. But as she stood to retrieve her bag, something slipped from her sketchbook and fluttered to the floor.
Julien bent down and picked it up. The lavender bookmark. He held it for a moment, his thumb brushing the edge, before handing it to her. “You still have this.”
She snatched it from him, her cheeks flushing. “Yes. So?”
He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Nothing. Just… didn’t expect it.”
She didn’t respond, shoving the bookmark back into her sketchbook and clutching it tightly. They disembarked without another word, parting ways at the terminal. But as she walked away, she couldn’t shake the feeling of his hand on hers, or the look in his eyes when he saw the bookmark.
And she hated that a part of her didn’t want to forget it.
