The restaurant was empty except for the soft clinking of glasses Mindy was polishing behind the bar. The golden glow from the overhead lamps shimmered off the polished wood, warm but heavy—like the silence that hung between you and Gabriel.

He stood across from you, arms crossed, still in his chef’s jacket. The embroidered L’Esprit de Gigi logo was slightly faded from too many late nights in the kitchen. His curls were messier than usual, a sure sign he’d been running his hands through his hair in frustration before you’d arrived.

“You don’t communicate with me,” you said, your voice breaking before you meant it to. “You just… shut down. I never know what you’re thinking.”

His jaw tightened. “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we only communicate in your language, not mine.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What does that mean?”

Gabriel’s laugh was quiet but bitter, the kind that hurt to hear. He turned away from you, muttering in French before his voice rose, sharp with exhaustion. “Je me sens flouée. J’avais un avenir radieux avec toi : une étoile Michelin, un bébé… Mais j’ai passé du temps à te convaincre que nous le valions bien et tu n’as même pas essayé. Je suis épuisée. Je ne crois plus en rien. Je vais devoir passer à la télé et essayer de convaincre toute la France de s’intéresser aux coquilles Saint-Jacques. On a des problèmes de communication, c’est vrai, mais ce n’est certainement pas de ma faute.”

You froze. You caught a few words—avenir… bébé… Michelin…—but the rest was a blur of emotion you couldn’t reach through.

“I—I don’t understand,” you said softly.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Exactly.”

And with that, he tossed his towel onto the counter and walked toward the back of the restaurant, the kitchen doors swinging shut behind him with a hollow thud.

You just stood there, breath trembling. The words replayed in your head, that foreign melody of pain you couldn’t translate. You wanted to call after him, but what could you say? You didn’t even know the right words—in English or in French.

Mindy appeared a moment later, still holding a wine glass, her expression softening when she saw your face. “Sweetheart…”

“I didn’t even realize,” you whispered, sitting down at one of the tables. “I thought the language thing was cute, like… romantic. But it’s not, is it? It’s a wall.”

Mindy sighed, setting the glass down before crouching beside you. “He’s proud, babe. And you’re… in Paris. It’s his home, his language, his dream. You’re just trying to find your footing, but maybe he thinks you’re not trying to meet him halfway.”

“I am trying,” you said weakly, but it came out like a question. “I thought I was.”

You stared at the menu sitting on the table—fancy cursive French words you still needed Google Translate to understand. You remembered the night you met Gabriel, how he’d laughed at your accent, how his eyes had sparkled when you said bonjour wrong. Back then, the language difference had felt charming. Now, it felt like an ocean.

“I’ve only been here two months,” you murmured. “My French sucks. I didn’t know it mattered that much to him.”

Mindy placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re not a bad girlfriend. You’re just… learning. And love’s harder when it’s bilingual.”

You gave a broken laugh. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t belong here.”

Mindy tilted your chin up. “Or maybe you do—but you just haven’t found your words yet.”

The restaurant felt so big in that moment, too quiet, too empty. Outside, Paris glimmered—the city of love, they called it. But love didn’t feel effortless like the movies said it would. It was work. Translation. Compromise.

And right now, you weren’t sure which of you had given up first.