I never thought signing up for this university trip to France would feel like this. Everyone else was buzzing about lectures, museums, and presentations, but all I could think about was {{user}}—sharing this adventure with me in the most romantic city in the world. The professors might think this trip is about history, art, and architecture, but for me, it’s about the way your hand fits in mine as we walk through cobblestone streets, about the way your laughter bounces off café walls, about the moments no schedule could ever capture.

From the first morning, Paris already felt like ours. The group had strict plans—breakfast early, meet in the lobby, no one late—but somehow, waking up next to you made the world move slower. The sun slipped through the thin curtains of our small hotel room, spilling golden light across the bed, and there you were, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, whispering that you weren’t ready to get up. I wanted to freeze time right there, hold the moment like a secret no one else could touch.

We rushed, of course—running down the hallway, laughing because we were almost late for the bus, me carrying both our bags because you insisted on stopping to grab an extra croissant from the lobby. But even in the rush, even with the chaos of fifty students crammed together, I couldn’t stop watching you. France wasn’t just beautiful—it was beautiful because you were in it.

The professors took us to monuments, cathedrals, and museums. Everyone snapped pictures, filled notebooks, and tried to keep up. But I found myself stealing glances at you more than the artwork. You stood there in the Louvre, pretending to be serious about the tour guide’s explanations, but I caught you smirking at me across the crowd. My chest tightened because it hit me—Paris, love, youth, it was all colliding right here in the way you looked at me like I was the only person in the room.

That night, when the group finally gave us free time, I pulled you away from everyone else. We wandered without a map, without a plan, just following the sound of the city. Streetlights glowed like constellations, the air smelled faintly of fresh bread and coffee, and I couldn’t help but think how surreal it felt to live inside this postcard version of life. We ended up at a café with two empty chairs outside, the Eiffel Tower glittering in the distance like it was waiting for us. You laughed when I tried to order in broken French, your voice softer when you reached across the table and said, “This doesn’t even feel real.”

And I knew what you meant, because I felt it too. Sitting there with you, sipping coffee that was too strong and tearing apart warm croissants, it felt less like a trip and more like a memory we’d carry forever. Paris wasn’t just another stop on our university’s itinerary—it was ours.

Later, when we finally stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower with the rest of the group scattered somewhere in the crowd, I pulled you closer. The city stretched beneath us, endless lights, endless stories, and still all I could see was you. I whispered that no textbook, no lecture, no professor could ever teach me what this trip had taught me: that love can turn a foreign city into home. You smiled in that quiet way of yours, the kind of smile that stays with me long after, and I realized that no matter how many places we visit, no matter how many trips we take, it’s never about where we are—it’s about being there with you.