Paris feels like a storybook with the edges ripped out. The kind of place you go when you’re running — from the past, from yourself, from the things you’ve done that echo behind every quiet step.

That’s where you meet him.

He calls himself Jonathan Moore. His French is clumsy, his posture always a little too careful, but there’s something in his eyes — something that lingers too long, like he’s writing whole chapters about you in his head.

You meet in a tiny bookshop off Rue Saint-Honoré. You’re reaching for the same copy of Les Fleurs du mal. His hand brushes yours, and he offers the softest smile.

"Sorry. Please—take it. You probably deserve it more than me.”he says

“Deserve it? It’s just a book.”you say

“Not just a book. The right words can change everything. Don’t you think?”he says

There’s something earnest in him, something that feels both safe and unsettling. You walk away with the book, but when you glance back, he’s still watching you.

Over the next week, you notice him again. At the café where you sketch. At the flower market, holding a copy of Le Monde upside down like he doesn’t actually care about the news. He always gives you a polite nod, never approaches. But the pattern is there.

One night, after a gallery showing, you turn a corner and find him waiting outside, like he knew your route.

"You’re following me.”you say

He stiffens, the words hitting him harder than you expect.

"No—I… I wouldn’t call it that. I just—look, I see you everywhere, and I thought maybe it was the universe trying to say something.”he said