In the morning, the first thing I see is the light.
The second is the notification: 1 message Noah .
"Thanks for yesterday. You made me forget how tired I was."
I stare at the screen, half-asleep, a smile tangled somewhere in the sheets.
I reply too fast.
"Thank you. You're less scary in real life "
He reacts with a laughing emoji.
Nothing else.
Just that light silence floating after the words the kind you don't dare break right away.
I get up, instant coffee, morning playlist.
The mirror shows a version of me who slept only halfway.
I keep telling myself it was just a walk, yet I feel like I left a movie on pause.
And the worst part is… I already want the next scene.
Mila's voice echoes in my head before I even check her messages:
"So?? Fifteen minutes or more?"
"Is he normal? No obvious red flags?"
"I know you, you already stalked his Insta."
I sigh and type:
"He's normal. Too normal, maybe. And no, I didn't sta okay fine, a little."
"And?"
"His account is private. Three pictures, nothing weird."
"Or too perfect. I'm watching. "
She doesn't mean it badly. Mila is my human firewall.
Without her, I would've already fallen back into another emotional disaster with dramatic soundtrack.
Noon.
Silence.
No message from Noah.
I hate that I'm thinking about it this much.
I'm doing a client's makeup for a shoot spotlights, powder, forced laughter but between two retouches, my phone burns in my pocket.
I finally check it around 3 p.m.
Nothing.
Okay. Not a big deal. He's working.
I put my brushes down, breathe.
This isn't a movie, Léna.
At 5:30 p.m., the phone vibrates.
"Photo of the day: found the best coffee in Paris. But someone is missing to test the croissant."
I smile instantly.
"On my way in ten minutes."
"Perfect. I've got two croissants and zero escape plans."
The café is tiny, almost empty. It smells like sugar and rain drying on coats.
Noah is there, sitting by the window, the red book next to him.
I laugh as soon as I see him.
"Do you always walk around with that book?"
"It scares away bad vibes. And sometimes it attracts the good ones."
I sit. The waitress sets down two burning coffees.
He looks at me with that calm attention I'm not used to receiving.
"You came without your LovLink filter," he notes.
"And you without your photographer mask."
"I have several."
"Bad sign."
"Or sign that I'm learning to choose."
I laugh, a bit awkward. There's something sincere in his voice, almost fragile.
While we talk, I notice his hands: ink stains on his fingers—the kind of detail rushed people never see.
"You write?"
He hesitates, then:
"Sometimes. Notes. Images that don't fit in my photos."
"You could read them to me."
"Not today. Maybe someday."
That maybe floats between us like a disguised promise.
We stay at the café longer than planned.
He tells me about his trips, absurd little jobs, the people he photographs without them knowing.
He doesn't talk much about himself, but a lot about others.
And I realize I like listening.
Around 7 p.m., he gets a call. He steps aside.
I only catch fragments:
"...no, not now… told you I'm handling it."
His voice shifts less soft, more closed.
When he comes back, he smiles, but something has dimmed in his eyes.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Work problem. Nothing important."
Lie.
I feel it.
But I decide not to push. Not yet.
On my way home, the sky turns into a violet aquarium.
I replay every sentence, every look, every silence.
And the more I analyze, the more confused I get.
Mila calls me on video.
"Okay, spill."
"He's… different."
"Different like sexy mystery or red-flag-under-construction?"
"Both, maybe."
"Great, you love complications."
"It's what makes me a modern romantic."
She laughs, then grows serious.
"Léna, be careful. Guys with perfect silences are usually the ones hiding the most."
I nod, not answering. She's right.
But tonight, I don't feel like being reasonable.
Midnight.
I'm in bed, the screen lighting up my hand.
Message from Noah:
"Thanks for the coffee. And for your smile. I think it haunted me a little."
I type without thinking:
"Then enjoy the haunting."
He replies almost immediately:
"I hope it lasts."
I put the phone down, heart light and a little uneasy.
Because deep down, I already feel what Mila fears:
in every silence between two messages, something is building.
And I don't know yet if it's love… or a shadow.