The canal breathes slowly. The streetlamps form a necklace of light on the water, and my steps echo beside his. Fifteen minutes. That was the deal, and yet every second stretches as if time itself hesitates to move forward.
Noah keeps the red book in his left hand. Up close, he looks just like his pictures, but more alive. His eyes catch the light; his smile stays slightly tucked away, like he's afraid of doing too much.
"So this is your famous walk?" I ask, just to break the silence.
"Only when I have good company."
"How many times have you rehearsed that line?"
He laughs—a real laugh, not the filler kind.
"Zero. I improvise well under pressure."
I shake my head, amused despite myself.
We follow the water. Neon reflections tremble on the surface. A cold breeze sweeps in, lifting a strand of my hair. Noah notices it and points with his eyes, without daring to fix it. He has that softness people have when they observe before they act.
"You seem calmer than online," I say.
"It's the 'real world' filter. It makes the too-perfect lines disappear."
"Shame, I liked yours."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Maybe."
He laughs again. It's contagious. I feel my shoulders loosen.
We talk about everything and nothing. The rain threatening above us, his favorite coffee place, the time I missed a shoot because a pigeon decided to crash-land onto my makeup kit. He actually listens, asks simple questions—none of the judgement-filled ones.
"You work a lot?"
"Too much. But it's fine. When I'm doing makeup, I feel useful, even for five minutes."
"And who takes care of you when you're done taking care of everyone else?"
I look up. Trap question.
"No one. And that's completely fine."
"You're a bad liar."
"You notice too much."
"It's my job."
He pauses, then adds:
"You know, photography isn't just about freezing things. It's also about understanding."
"Understanding what?"
"Why we keep some things, and not others."
I don't answer. His words go straight through me. I try not to think about my ex the picture of me crying he accidentally posted in his story. I inhale. I smile. I change the subject.
"And you? Why LovLink?"
He shrugs.
"For the wrong reasons."
"Like?"
"To forget someone. And to prove I could."
I nod. Irony burns a bit.
"We're using the same strategy."
"Then it's a logical match."
"Or a dangerous one."
"Sometimes it's the same thing."
We stop in front of a bench. Fifteen minutes passed long ago, but neither of us mentions it. The wind slips between us, a little too familiar.
"I should go home," I say.
"Yeah."
But neither of us moves. He finally sets the book on the bench. Worn red cover.
"What is it?" I ask.
"A travel novel. I take it everywhere. It reassures me."
"What are you afraid of?"
He looks at me, his gaze turning more serious.
"Not finding my place."
"You mean… in the world?"
"No. In people's minds."
I stay silent. It's rare someone talking like that on a first meeting.
"And you, Léna? What are you looking for here?"
I laugh softly.
"To prove I can be liked without falling apart again."
"And? Verdict?"
"Too soon to tell."
Our eyes meet. Too long. My stomach tightens.
He looks away first.
"I promised you fifteen minutes," he says.
"And they're up."
"So I'll keep my word."
He picks up the book, stands, and adds with a half-smile:
"If you ever want it to last sixteen minutes next time, I'll know where to find you."
I watch him walk away. Gray hoodie, hands in pockets, calm silhouette. No extra words. No misplaced gesture. Just that strange emptiness—the kind that slips between the end and the beginning of something.
My phone vibrates. Mila.
"Well?? Alive??"
I type:
"Yes. And maybe a little more than that."
I put my phone away, breathe in the cold air, and smile for real.
Under the streetlamps, the canal reflects the lights as if it wants to remind me of something:
Some encounters make no noise, but they change the entire soundtrack.