𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 a chance encounter in Paris between movie star Timothée Chalamet, Cara Villin, and a pack of cards sparks a whirlwind romance, four years later, and some things never change...
𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓹 𝓶𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓽𝓮...
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𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐫𝐤
It was a Sunday morning, and the first of Spring's sun dappled through the Norway Maple trees down my street. Throwing on a scarf, I strolled lazily down my two blocks to my regular spot.
Sat with my black coffee and cigarettes, I took a sip and exhaled the steam into the cold air. I smiled to myself, feeling like a kid, and sighed. My hand turning over the beaten up Moleskine notebook I was flicking through the edges of. I didn't have the heart to open it just yet.
Taking a cigarette to my lips, I inhaled the smoke deeply.
Turning the front page open, I exhaled.
There it was, the first gift he ever gave me.
"We'll always have Paris."
His handwriting sprawled across the page, deliberate yet rough, like he was trying too hard not to sound like himself.
Ma cher, you know I'm no good with words, that's why I am only an actor - luckily, I fell in love with a writer.
Tell me all your thoughts, show me how you see the world.
For only in that world, do I wish to exist.
Et tu es dans toute mes pensées - T
Below that, in his slightly messier scrawl, he'd scribbled a line from La Nuit des Rois:
"Garde tes songs; les sages n'en ont pas d'aussi beaux que les fous!"
I reread the inscription. Again and again, until the letters blurred on the page, but I wasn't seeing the words anymore.
I was remembering the first time I'd read them, sitting cross-legged on a blanket in the Jardin des Tuileries. His jacket around my shoulders, the sound of people murmuring in French somewhere nearby, like music in the background of a film.
I sat up, I pulled out my fresh Moleskine, ripped off the packaging feverishly, my pen cap gritted in between my teeth as I started to scribble away.
My hands shook, my fingers trembled, my heart ached, my lungs burned, my throat restricted. And yet, it was like someone had set me alight. I was alive, I was awake. It poured out of me, like a broken fountain. I was sure when I would look back at my writing, I wouldn't be able to decipher a single word, but to my surprise. It was all there.
