When she left the café, Angie didn't have the strength to go home. The apartment was waiting for her—empty, silent, filled with memories that clung to her like chains. She walked aimlessly for a few minutes, hands in her pockets, her face turned toward the city lights gradually fading.
Then, almost without thinking, she changed direction.
There was someone she hadn't seen in a long time. Someone she missed sometimes, though she never dared admit it. A friend who had once been a refuge.
Léo.
The name echoed inside her like a door slowly opening.
They had lost touch over time. Unread messages. "Let's catch up soon" that led nowhere. But she still knew where he lived, in that loft he'd turned into a photo studio, above an old carpentry workshop.
She climbed the metal stairs two at a time, hesitating, then knocked softly on the door.
Footsteps. Then a click. The door opened.
— "Angie?"
His voice was a little hoarse, his hair tousled, and he wore an old checkered shirt over a white t-shirt stained with ink or paint. His eyes softened the instant he saw her.
— "Hey," she said, almost sheepishly. "I… I was in the neighborhood."
He didn't answer right away. He simply opened the door wider.
— "Come in."
The studio was still bathed in light, even at this late hour. Large black-and-white photographs covered the walls—faces, bodies, suspended moments. Angie moved toward them, her eyes gleaming.
— "You haven't changed," she whispered.
— "And you… you look tired."
She turned toward him, a faint smile on her lips.
— "I needed to talk to someone. And I knew you… you'd listen without judging."
He gave a small shrug, as if to say "you know I'm here," but didn't speak. He went into the kitchen and came back with two steaming mugs of tea, wordlessly.
They sat on an old beige couch, facing a large canvas hung on the wall. A portrait of a woman. Her gaze was blurred, her shoulders bare. Fragile and strong at once.
Angie stared at the image for a long moment.
— "She's beautiful."
— "She doesn't know it," Léo replied softly.
A silence settled between them. Comfortable. Soothing.
Then Angie spoke.
About everything. About Jessica. About Grégory. About the kiss. The guilt. She poured out everything she had been carrying for weeks. And he… didn't flinch. He listened. With the same quiet patience as always. With the kind of kindness that made him unique.
— "I feel like I don't recognize myself anymore," she breathed. "Like… I'm becoming someone I don't even like."
He set his mug down, moved a little closer, and murmured:
— "You're going through a storm. But you're still you. And I know you well enough to know you'll get back up."
She lowered her eyes.
— "You think so?"
— "I mostly think… you're not alone. I'm here, Angie. Even if I gave you too much space… I'm still here."
She felt her eyes sting. She nodded.
— "Thank you, Léo."
He smiled. That soft, quiet smile, full of no expectations.
— "You don't need to thank me. You're one of those people you never forget. Even in silence."
They stayed like that a while longer. No words. Just each other's presence. A simple, human warmth.
And that night, walking out of the loft, Angie felt—perhaps for the first time in a long while—a breeze of hope brushing against her skin.