“I—I…，” I start. The words struggle to come. “I thought we were…over. When you left…I thought…it was the end of us. That it was always meant to be the end of us.”
From his pained expression, I can tell that I was wrong.
“I felt so horrible after the accident,” he says. “I thought you didn’t want to speak to me again.”
“What? That’s not true. It wasn’t your fault,” I say. “I should have told you I hadn’t left yet.”
“I don’t care,” Louis says, grabbing my face with his hands. “You’re here. Right now. With me. I love you, Mia. I couldn’t let you leave Paris without telling you again.”
“I love you, too,” I say, kissing him through tears.
I know this will hurt all over again when I’m on the plane, but I’m okay with it. Love is like ballet in that way: to be worth it, it has to be painful at times. Exquisitely so.
I’M NOT RUNNING this time, but I have a definite feeling of déjà vu as I step into the Charles de Gaulle airport terminal. It’s just as busy as the last time I arrived here, but I’m not leaping or pirouetting to get to my destination. No frizzy hair or sweat dripping down my back, either.
In fact, I stop halfway through to duck into the bathroom. Dropping my things against the wall, I claim the sink in the corner to freshen up. I brush my teeth, my hair, and the food crumbs off my tracksuit pants, before pulling out a clean set of clothes. I wash my face, apply a thick layer of moisturizer to soothe my skin after the long flight, and study myself in the mirror. I look totally presentable now, freshly pressed and almost rested. In fact, I remind myself of someone I know.
Back in the terminal, I take a selfie with the taxi sign behind me. I click to send it as a text message.
Guess where I am? I write. I keep walking toward the exit when my phone rings.
“Isn’t it the middle of the night in New York?” I ask as soon as the video call connects.
Audrey shrugs back at me. Behind her, I can make out lit-up skyscrapers and the silhouettes of a few people.
“Are you outside?” I ask, incredulous. I do quick math: It must be about one a.m. there.
“Yes!” Audrey says with a bright smile, her cheeks flushed. “We just came back from a music festival in Brooklyn.” She moves her phone around to show me the group she’s with. Three girls and one guy wave at me. “Hi!” they say in unison.
“Guys, this is my friend Mia,” Audrey says, turning the phone back on her. “She just moved to Pareeeee.”
They laugh, and I do, too, until I realize it’s me they’re talking about. It hits me all over again: I just moved to Paris.
Turns out, l’Institut de l’Opéra de Paris really did wait for me. My last year of high school went by in a blur. And while it was a long and grueling road to recovery, I was back to dancing in a few months. I couldn’t believe it at first, but my body remembered every move. I met with the apprentice program director in New York in the spring, and she was over the moon to learn that I’d been back in the studio for a while already. “This was meant to be,” she said as we hugged goodbye. I think élise Mercier would have agreed with her.
“What about your beauty sleep?” I ask Audrey.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she says with a laugh. “A friend of mine taught me that enjoying life can make me an even better dancer.”
“She sounds very wise.”
Audrey nods. “I miss her already.”
I’ve almost forgotten that Audrey and I weren’t exactly friends from the start. But we are now. I took the train to New York to visit her, and saw her dance with ABT. At first I was worried that it would be too painful, but I made my peace with it. In fact, Audrey helped me see that, like Mom had suggested, the original plan isn’t always the best one. Her mom always wanted her to attend the Bolshoi Ballet, but Audrey followed her heart. Deep down she knew what was right for her, where her life should be.
I hang up with Audrey just as I step outside the Arrivals terminal. I scan the crowd, my heart trumpeting in my chest. There’s a long line of people holding signs with passengers’ names on them. None of them are for me.
When we’d texted last week, he said he wasn’t sure if his class schedule would allow him to pick me up from the airport. I told him that it was fine. Louis and I never made any promises to each other. That day at Le Meurice, we said goodbye through tears, and appreciated our time together for what it had been: an amazing summer that would give us memories for life, no matter what happened next. We texted and called, but it wasn’t the same, of course. Time and distance have a way of getting in the middle of even the best love stories. But my feelings never changed.