All We Have Is Now

cinq

cinq // amelia

♡

All that's left in my mug is some undissolved sugar granules and a small puddle of cold tea. But despite the fact that I finished my beverage ages ago, the warmth it spread through me is yet to fade away. Maybe that feeling isn't because of the tea, but because of the boy sitting opposite me. His hair is a flaxen mess of wild waves threaded with gold, and his eyes are filled with unsmiling thunderclouds. Throughout our conversation, he's only smiled twice. I've kept track, because each time his lips parted to reveal teeth that weren't quite aligned and a left dimple, it felt as if there was a sunrise blooming in my heart.

There is something about that smile that seems to unravel every rule I live by. Back in England, I would never have sat down on the same table as a stranger. Back home, I would never have struck up a conversation with a stranger. Back then, I definitely wouldn't have shared personal details with a stranger.

I am accustomed to following the plans I usually script for myself, but that doesn't mean I can't make exceptions. Like, when I have the chance to talk to cute boy rather than sit on my own in a foreign café, it's inevitable that I will choose the former, even if it doesn't follow my plan.

Plus, my new life here in Paris is completely unscripted. For once in my life, I don't have lines to follow, and there's something extremely liberating about not being tied down to any plans. I feel disorganised, reckless, out of control...yet freer than I've felt in years.

I glance at Marius, and catch his stormy gaze lingering on me – like rainclouds clinging to the sky after a hurricane. I offer him a small smile, a daring invitation for him to do the same, and the risk pays off. He returns the gesture, giving me his third smile of the afternoon.

Marius taps his fingers against his empty mug, and for the first time since I gate-crashed his table, I notice a crumbled receipt resting on the table beside his toned forearm. The receipt is not what catches my attention, but the address scribbled onto the paper in smudging black ink.

19 Avenue la Bougeotte, 94160 Saint-Mandé, France

"That's my new apartment building!" the words spill out of my mouth before I realise that I just disclosed my address to a stranger. I smack my hands over my mouth, as if it will bring the words back.

A hopeful look fills Marius's eyes, like clouds evacuating the sky after a storm. "It is?"

"Um..."

"You couldn't show me the way, could you? I'm supposed to be meeting...a friend there."

Old habits die hard. A familiar drifting sensation washes over me, the same feeling I get every time I feel myself straying away from my plans. Usually, I'm organised and careful and cautious. That part of me is now being gripped by an icy panic, as I realise that I've just tangled myself with a stranger and revealed way too much. I just told a stranger where I live. What if he's secretly part of a gang or something – one who aims to vandalise our apartment, abduct me and inflict me with their torture? My typical organisation and carefulness spins out of my grasp, out of control, and I'm drowned by a helpless feeling of vulnerability.

I squint at Marius, as if seeing him for the first time. The light dusting of stubble that coats his chin indicates that he could be at least a year or two older than me, and the suitcase resting beside his chair – the one I mistook for my own on the train earlier today – is battered and worn, as if it carries more than just possessions, but secrets and memories and stories too.

Suddenly, I feel myself withdrawing. I sink back in my chair, trying to put some distance between me and this mysterious stranger. My hand tightens around the strap of my handbag.