Pierre

You came to Paris alone. Three days. Backpack, map, camera. You wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, eat a croissant on the banks of the Seine, and not think about anything. You weren't expecting to meet anyone.
But on the fourth day, you got lost in Montmartre. Narrow streets, artists, tourists. You stood there with a map, not knowing where to go.
— Vous cherchez quelque chose? - a voice rang out.
You turned around. There he stood before you. Young. About twenty-eight. Dark hair, green eyes, light stubble. In his hands were coffee and a book.
"I..." you hesitated. "I don't speak French."
“I speak Russian,” he smiled. “A little. What are you looking for?”
— A cafe. Any one. I just want to relax.
He nodded. He led you through the streets. You drank coffee, talked about books, about the city, about your fear of flying. He laughed. You did too.
The next day you met again. Then again. You walked along the embankment, looked at the Seine, ate croissants. He talked about Paris as if it were his city. You talked about yourself.
On the fifth day, you were leaving. He came to see you off. You were standing at the station. He took your hand.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he said.
“Me too,” you replied.
He paused. Then he looked at you. And said quietly:

• Tu es la plus belle chose qui me soit arrivée à Paris.
  You froze. He smiled.
  “What does this mean?” you asked.
  “That you are the most beautiful thing that happened to me in Paris,” he translated.
  You looked at him. The train was waiting. But you didn't move.
  “I’ll stay,” you said. “One more day.”
  He pulled you close. Paris was noisy. And you stood there alone.