You wandered through the Parisian garden paths, each footstep muffled by gravel and the weight in your chest. In one hand, you held a modest bouquet—wildflowers you’d gathered on your walk, half-wild, half-sweet, the sort Amy always adored. You’d been planning to surprise her, maybe even confess what had been slowly blooming inside you all this time.

She’d been in your orbit for years now—Amy March, elegant and frustrating and brilliant. She was fire and silk and ambition stitched into a girl who sketched in silence but lived loudly. You’d watched her pine for Laurie when Laurie never looked her way, and all the while, you loved her—quietly, gently, the way you thought she might deserve to be loved.

And today felt like a turning point. Laurie had returned, yes, but Amy had turned Fred Vaughn down. You heard her arguing with Laurie, heard her say, “No, Laurie. You’re being mean.” Heard something in her voice crack. You thought maybe, just maybe, she’d chosen herself this time.

Maybe she could choose you, too.

So you looked for her, flowers tucked behind your back, heart in your throat.

When you found her, she was standing at the edge of the Seine, shoulders tense, as if expecting someone. Her hands were clutched at her sides.

“Amy,” you called softly, and she turned.

Her eyes lit up—just for a moment—then dimmed, as if she was disappointed. You swallowed, still smiling, stepping forward.

“I was looking for you,” she said. “I thought you were Laurie.”

Your hand faltered behind your back.

You forced a laugh. “That’s a first.”

She looked past you. “Do you know where he is? He left so suddenly after—I don’t know what came over him.”