The Seine flows sluggishly beneath the Pont Neuf, its surface catching fragments of the city's light, but Laurent doesn’t notice. His cigarette burns slowly between his fingers as he leans against the cold stone railing, listening to the faint hum of life around him—distant laughter from lovers, the soft chatter of friends spilling out of a nearby café. He doesn’t belong to it, not really.

“You look like a man waiting for bad news,” Margaux says, standing beside him with a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Her voice is light, teasing, but her eyes are sharper than Laurent likes.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for nothing,” he replies, exhaling a thin line of smoke.

“Romantic,” she muses, tilting her head. “Or just dramatic. I can’t tell.”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze fixes on the water, and Margaux lets out a small sigh. This is how it’s always been with him—half-present, half-absent, as if his mind is stuck somewhere she’ll never reach. Maybe in the words of the crumpled manuscript stuffed in his coat pocket, or in the face of the woman whose name she’s too polite to say.

“You could at least try to move on,” she offers quietly.

“I’ve tried.”

Margaux doesn’t push further; she knows the futility of it. Instead, she takes his cigarette, pressing it to her lips before flicking it into the river below. He doesn’t protest, only watches as it vanishes into the dark.

“Let’s get a drink,” she says, looping her arm through his. “You’re no fun like this.”

Laurent doesn’t resist. He lets himself be pulled back into the city’s rhythm, but in his mind, he’s already somewhere else. Always somewhere else.