The next morning, I wake up before my alarm.
Bad sign.Daylight filters through the curtains, pale and hesitant, as if even the sun isn't sure it wants to rise.My phone blinks on the nightstand.
No messages.Not a single word from Noah since his "pleasant haunting."
I hate that it bothers me this much. Two meet-ups, a few messages, nothing more.And yet it's therethat little hollow in my chest, like I left something behind somewhere.At noon, Mila calls me during my break.
"So… the man with the red book?"
"Radio silence since last night."
"It's fine, babe, you didn't sign an exclusivity contract."
"I know, but it's weird. He used to text constantly."
"Or he's testing you."
"Testing me?"
"Guys like him love to see if you get hooked. Mystery is their fuel."
I laugh, without really believing it.
"Couldn't you just admit he has a life?"
"Sure. But I'd like to know which one."
Mila is the FBI in best-friend form: caring, but always ready to type "name + city + Instagram" the second she smells trouble.
Around 2 p.m., as I'm packing my makeup kit after a session, a notification appears:
"Sorry for the silence. Complicated day. You okay?"
Immediate relief.
Followed, one second later, by annoyance.
Why "complicated day"? Why not an actual detail?
I type a reply that's too polite:
"Yeah, I'm fine. Were you on some secret mission or what? "
He answers a few minutes later:
"Almost. Promise I'll make it up to you soon."
Soon.
A word that's empty and full at the same time.
In the evening, Mila shows up at my place unannounced, arms full of sushi and a laptop.
"Emergency intervention."
"For what?"
"Operation 'Decode Noah.'"
I roll my eyes.
"Mila, seriously…"
"Seriously, yes. Do you know how many guys looked perfect until I discovered their exes, their lies, and their secret accounts?"
She settles on the couch, opens her laptop.
"Give me his full name."
"Mila…"
"Léna, trust me. We're not digging we're securing."
I end up giving in. She types fast, nails clicking on the keys.
"Noah Léger, huh? Let's see…"
A few minutes pass.
Then her face changes.
"Found him."
She turns the screen toward me.
A public profile picture: same eyes, same strand of hair, but younger.
The post is from three years ago.
Under the photo: #Souvenir #AlwaysWithYou #Clara
"Who's Clara?"
A cold shiver runs through me.
"Maybe his sister? A friend?"
"Or his ex," Mila whispers. "Look."
She clicks on the tagged girl's profile.
The account has been inactive for… three years as well.
Last post: a photo of the Canal Saint-Martin at sunset.
The exact same place where we met.
My stomach tightens.
"Maybe it's a coincidence."
"Maybe. But that's a lot of maybes."
That night, I can't sleep.
I reopen my conversation with Noah.
Reread every word.
Every sentence that once felt sincere now echoes differently.
I type a message, delete it.
Rewrite it, delete again.
I finally send:
"Tell me, Noah. Do you know someone named Clara?"
I stare at the screen, heart pounding.
The three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Then finally:
"Yes. Why?"
I answer instantly:
"I saw pictures."
A long silence. Then:
"It's complicated, Léna."
"Then simplify it."
"Not tonight. Please."
I grip the phone tight in my hand.
The please sounds sincere.
But the fear settles anyway.
I lie down, throat tight.
In my head, Mila's voice keeps circling:
"Guys with perfect silences…"
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come.
Because deep down, I already feel it:
Noah Léger is hiding something.
And I've already slipped too far to turn back.