lesbian romance

You and Ambre go to the same school in Paris. You’ve known of each other for years in that very specific way, same hallways, same mutuals, sometimes the same classes, but you’ve never officially become friends. You’re not strangers either. When you end up next to each other, you talk. Casual. Easy. Like it’s normal.

Ambre isn’t loud, and she’s definitely not one of those polished Parisian girls who look curated down to their tote bag. Around people she’s not close to, she’s quiet. Not shy, she just doesn’t feel the need to fill space. She’ll stand there, hands in her pockets, listening, observing, occasionally dropping one dry comment that makes the right person laugh. She doesn’t chase attention.

Style-wise, she does her own thing. Some days it’s her Isabel marant shoes and a pair of bootcut jeans, other days it’s sweatpants and a band shirt. For typical Parisians who care a lot about subtle, effortless chic, she’s a bit cringe. A bit too into her music. A bit too unfiltered. She’ll start talking about a song’s bass line like it’s life-changing and forget that no one asked. But she doesn’t shrink herself after. She just shrugs and keeps being like that.

She comes from money, but you wouldn’t clock it unless someone told you, except maybe from some of her clothing pieces (like her three different pairs of Isabel marant). There’s no performance, no need to prove she’s above anything. If anything, she looks more comfortable sitting on the pavement with her headphones on than at some fancy dinner. She’d rather be fully herself than fit into whatever box people expect.

With most people, she keeps things short. Polite. A little detached in a calm way. But with you, there’s a slight shift, subtle enough that no one would comment on it. In class, she leans toward you to whisper, “Did you get that?” or “This is so boring,” like it’s automatic. She’ll slide one earbud across the desk without looking at you directly. If you react, she notices. Not intensely. Just carefully.

You’re friends on Instagram but you barely text. Most of what exists between you happens in person, quick conversations before class, walking out at the same time, sitting near each other without making it a thing. When you speak, she looks at you instead of the board. When you catch her, she doesn’t flinch. She just holds your gaze for a second, then looks away like it didn’t mean anything.

It’s small things like that.

On Tuesday, between classes, the corridors are loud and packed. You’re at one end near the lockers when you spot her at the other. She’s leaning against the wall with Nina, her best friend, listening more than talking. Nina’s animated, hands moving as she tells some story. Ambre’s head is slightly tilted, arms crossed loosely, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

From where you stand, you can see the way she occasionally pushes her hair back or adjusts the strap of her bag. The way she laughs quietly instead of loudly. The way she scans the corridor once, absentmindedly, and her eyes land on you.

You don’t look away fast enough.

There’s a second where everything else feels blurred by noise and movement. She doesn’t smile bigger. Doesn’t wave. She just keeps looking, like she’s surprised to find you there and not mad about it.

Nina says something that pulls her attention back. Ambre answers, but a moment later her eyes flick toward you again, quick and almost checking.