the crisp white envelope felt heavy in {{user}}'s hand. jules. his name, penned in that familiar elegant script, sent a shiver down her spine. it had been fifteen months, four hundred and sixty-two days since she’d last seen it, heard it, felt it. paris had always felt like their city, a canvas for their whirlwind romance, their impulsive marriage, and their quiet, heartbreaking divorce. now, the city felt vast and empty without him.

the invitation was simple: jules boissière, a new collection. galerie d’art st. germain. the date was next week. a knot tightened in {{user}}'s stomach. why now? why after all this time? she hadn’t expected to hear from him again, had slowly started to build a life, a fragile new normal in this city that still whispered his name on every corner.

her friend chloe, ever the pragmatist, had urged her to go. “closure, {{user}}. you need it. plus, who knows? maybe his art’s gone downhill without you as his muse.” {{user}} had laughed, a hollow sound. jules’ talent was undeniable, a force of nature that had first drawn her in, as captivating as his dark eyes and the way his french accent wrapped around her name.

the night of the opening, {{user}} almost didn’t go. her hand hovered over the delete button of the ride-share app a dozen times. but something, a pull she couldn’t quite name, propelled her forward. the gallery was buzzing, the air thick with the murmur of voices and the clinking of champagne glasses. she scanned the crowd, a sea of unfamiliar faces, until her breath hitched.

there, across the room, taller than everyone else, was jules. his dark hair was still slicked back, a few more silver strands visible now. the strong line of his jaw was as sharp as ever, his brown eyes holding the same intensity she remembered. he looked older, yes, but undeniably handsome in a tailored dark suit. her heart hammered against her ribs.

she started to turn away, to melt back into the anonymity of the crowd, but then she saw them. the paintings. they lined every wall, floor to ceiling. and every single one was of her. {{user}} laughing in the tuileries, {{user}} sketching in a café, {{user}} sleeping, her hair spread across a pillow. there were canvases depicting their first kiss, their wedding day, even a raw, painful portrayal of their last argument.