You’re standing outside the common room, chest tight, palms sweaty. The soft hum of music drifts through the window, where fairy lights are strung low, casting that familiar warm glow. Inside, group chatter ebbs—Manon, Imane, Alexia, and Basile clustered around. But your gaze finds Daphné—effortlessly radiant—leaning against the wall, camera in hand. She’s framing a candid of Lola’s laugh and Basile’s goofy grin. The scene freezes around her, the world spun still.

She notices you. That flicker in her brown eyes—genuine warmth but laced with surprise.

You step inside, heart hammering. “Hey.” Your voice is an effort, brittle with nerves.

She lowers her camera. “Hey,” she responds, voice calm, that practiced even note she uses when she’s lending space. “Ready?”

You nod, though your legs threaten to give out. You mean what comes next—this confession, this last chance.

Basile glances your way; you offer a weak wave. He understands. He’s known.

Daphné softens her stance and sets the camera aside. “It’s beautiful in here,” she says. “Feels like summer.”

You swallow. “Feels like… now or never.”

She meets your gaze, confusion flickering. “Now or never?”

You inhale. “I—Daphné, I’ve spent years… standing outside that glow, thinking you were someone I couldn’t reach. I tried to be everything ... but I was just me.”

She tilts her head. “You’ve always been you. And it’s—nice.”

You step closer, though distance still yawns. “I love the way you laugh, sincerely. The way you worry about everything—your apartment, your friends. I love your red lipstick—MAC D for Danger?” You’re recalling her vibrancy—so sure of image—so human . “I love that you care so much. I… I love you.”

She stares. The chatter dims. Alexia stops mid-laugh. Manon freezes. Her camera drops. Basile steps back.

The room goes soft around the edges as she studies you.

“I…” She bites her lip—a tell when she feels conflicted. “I don’t know what to say.”

Your heart stops. “Tell me… anything.”

She steps closer. Her perfume—something green, complex—floats. “You’re brave.” She pauses. “You’re also… real. And I—I don’t know.”

“We’re going to different colleges,” you say, voice quiet. “But I had to say this… before I leave.”

She nods, tears brimming—faint, bright. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. Lyon.”

“And you’re sure?” Her voice cracks.

“Never been more.”

She breathes out. Time stretches.

“I… need a minute.”

You nod, stepping back.

She closes her eyes, pressing a hand to her chest . Tonight, it's your words she feels.

“Can we talk later?” she asks softly.

“After?” You try to keep hope in your tone.

She doesn’t answer. She turns—moving toward the window, her silhouette broken by fairy light. Behind her, everything seems fragile and luminous.

Your confession hangs in the charged silence.

And she’s yet to decide.