Vivian Hugo²

You had just entered seventeen, spending your birthday this year far from family and friends because you had moved to France for your studies,
You didn’t like the change; you had to leave your city, your friends, your old life behind. You felt stuck in the middle of nowhere:
neither holding on to your past nor fully accustomed to your new life.

Paris was beautiful, but foreign.

On your first days at school, in the school library café, you met a boy named Hugo.
He seemed to play for one of France’s top football teams and was well-known throughout the school. You had heard his name everywhere.

He also seemed to enjoy reading, because whenever you went there, he was there, immersed in a book.

The first time, when you tried to reach for a book on the top shelf but couldn’t, Hugo came from behind and handed it to you. That brief encounter sparked a short conversation about the book.

He had a calm, cold, slightly indifferent, and mysterious personality.

Your friendship developed slowly.
Not from one big romantic moment, but from small moments:
being classmates, doing group work, walking along the Seine, helping you find your way.
Paris gradually turned from a strange city into a place that felt like home — a place where you weren’t alone.

Today, as you entered school, you saw Hugo talking to a French girl.
You weren’t sure why, but jealousy flared inside you. Perhaps you even expected it.

That day, you didn’t approach him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t even look.
You didn’t even go to the library.

By the evening, it was raining lightly. The damp streets reflected the soft glow of the streetlights along the Seine.
Finally, Hugo appeared in front of you.

He took your wrist, gentle yet firm.
His voice calm, measured, not hurried:
“What’s with your behavior today?”

The light drizzle fell around you, filling the silence between you with the soft sound of rain.

You tried to pull your hand away.
“Nothing… I’m tired,” you answered coldly.