The next morning, Paris looked different — not sad, not happy, just real.
The soft rain kissed the windows while Maya stood at the counter, reading a letter that had arrived in elegant gold print.
It was from Le Cordon Bleu, the prestigious culinary institute.
> Congratulations, Miss Maya Sharma. You have been selected as one of the top contestants for the International Chef Competition in Paris.
Her hands trembled slightly. This was it. The dream she had chased since she was a little girl standing in her mother's small kitchen in Delhi.
Before she could scream with joy, Adrian walked in, holding his phone, a serious look on his face.
"Maya…" he began softly.
She turned, smiling brightly. "You won't believe this! I got in— the international competition! Adrian, this is everything I wanted!"He smiled — proud, but his eyes carried something else.
"That's amazing, Maya. You deserve this."
She tilted her head. "What's wrong?"
He sighed. "I just got a call from London. There's an issue with the board. They want me back for a few weeks."
Her smile faltered. "When?"
"Tomorrow."
The word hit harder than either expected.
Tomorrow.
---
That night, they sat in silence at dinner. The candle flickered between them, light dancing over two faces that didn't know how to hide the ache.
"You should go," Maya whispered, forcing a smile. "You're the CEO. You can't stay away forever."
"And you should compete," he said, his voice low. "I won't let you give that up."
She looked at him — really looked — and said softly, "It's strange, isn't it? We fought so hard to find peace together, and now life is testing us again."
He reached across the table, holding her hand. "Then we'll pass the test."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
---The next morning, the train station was cold and quiet.
Adrian stood there, suitcase in hand, eyes fixed on her. Maya hugged him tightly, not caring who watched.
"I'll call every night," he said.
"You better," she whispered against his chest.
He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And don't forget to eat properly."
She smiled faintly. "And don't forget me."
He looked at her, eyes soft. "Never."
The train doors closed slowly, and Maya watched him go — the man who had once been her enemy, then her boss, then her heartbeat.
As the train pulled away, she pressed her hand to her chest and whispered,
> "Come back to me soon, Adrian."Days passed. Maya buried herself in preparation for the competition — chopping, tasting, perfecting.
Yet sometimes, when she burned her fingers or spilled sauce, she caught herself turning, half-expecting him to be there saying,
> "Careful, Chef."
He wasn't.
Only silence.
Meanwhile in London, Adrian sat in his sleek office, a photo of them on his desk. Meetings, reports, endless board debates — but his mind drifted to Paris every few hours.
One night, after a late meeting, he sent her a simple text:
> "Still miss your coffee. And your smile."
Her reply came seconds later:
> "Still waiting for both of us to come home."And somewhere between London's skyline and Paris's moonlit streets,
love stretched — not broken, just tested.
Because sometimes, distance doesn't separate hearts.
It just proves how strong they really are.