Saisha's pov:

I zipped my suitcase shut and sat on top of it with a loud sigh.

That's it.
My final year exams were over. Every paper submitted, every project reviewed.

And now... in just two days, I'd be flying to Paris.

It still didn't feel real. Paris , the city I had only seen in movies and dreamt of during long, sleepy afternoons — was about to become my reality.

I stood near the window of our room, watching the way the sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains. Pranay was lying on the bed, reading something on his phone, but I knew he was also watching me ...he always did, in that quiet, steady way of his.

"You're not excited?" he asked, setting his phone aside.

I turned to him, giving a soft smile.

"I am. Just... overwhelmed, I guess."

He patted the space beside him. "Come here, madam photojournalist."

I crawled onto the bed and curled into him, breathing in the scent of home - his T-shirt, his skin, the faint trace of coffee and cologne.

We spent the next two days preparing — making lists, shopping for essentials, downloading offline maps, setting up international roaming, and giggling like teens when he tried to teach me basic French from YouTube videos.

"Say it again," he chuckled. "Je m'appelle Saisha."

"Jum apple Samosa??," I said deadpan.

He burst out laughing. "You'll do just fine in Paris."

The night before my flight, we didn't sleep much.

We made hot chocolate, played old Hindi songs, and lay under the fairy lights in the balcony. He wrapped a blanket around both of us, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

"I'm scared," I whispered.

He kissed my forehead. "I'm not. You're stronger than you know, Aishu."

"I'm going to miss you terribly."

"I'll miss you more," he said softly. "But this city won't change who you are. It'll just show you more of who you can become."

Later, when we went to bed, I found a note tucked inside my purse:
"Don't look for me in Paris. I'm already in your pocket, in your laugh, and in your lens. Love you endlessly. – Your Pranu."

-------------------------------------------------

The next morning at the airport was a blur of emotions.

I held his hand so tight in the car that I'm sure his fingers turned red.
He helped me with check-in, made sure I had my documents, my charger, my medicines — everything.

And then came the part I had dreaded the most.

The final hug.

I threw my arms around him, burying my face into his neck. He hugged me back with so much warmth that I could've melted.

"Don't cry," he whispered, even though his own eyes were glistening. "You've can do this."

"I'll call you the moment I land," I whispered.

He held my face, kissed my forehead, then my nose, then finally my lips — slow, lingering, memorizing.

And then... I walked away.

As the plane soared into the clouds, I stared out the window, watching the world shrink beneath me. My heart felt too full — not broken, not empty, just... overflowing.

When the flight landed in Paris, it was evening. The golden light outside shimmered over unfamiliar buildings and signs I couldn't read.

My heart beat faster as I stepped out.

A new country. A new chapter. And me - Saisha Yadav, who once wasn't allowed to step out of the house, was now breathing in the Paris air.

I rolled my suitcase toward the arrivals gate, blinking back tears, and smiled to myself.

Pranay Mishra, I'm going to make you so proud.

The moment I stepped out of the airport, Paris greeted me with a breeze that felt nothing like home — it was cool, crisp, with the faintest scent of roasted coffee beans and blooming spring.

I quickly messaged pranu - reached!

A man holding a placard with "Saisha Yadav" waved at me with a kind smile.

"Bonjour, Saisha," he said warmly. "I'm Julien. Mr. Aditya Rane asked me to receive you."

Mr. Aditya Rane
The legendary photojournalist under whom I'd be interning.

I still couldn't believe this was real.

The drive to his studio was quiet, with me mostly staring out of the window like a wide-eyed child. Everything looked cinematic — cobbled streets, pastel buildings with little balconies, flower boxes hanging out like they belonged in a painting.

We reached a quaint three-storey building with a board that read:

 "Studio Lumière – AR Photography"

Inside, the place smelled of old books, fresh ink, and faintly of darkroom chemicals. Wooden floors creaked gently underfoot. Every wall was filled with framed photographs — war zones, weddings, fashion, candid faces, laughter, poverty, strength.

I was in awe.

Mr. Aditya Rane was in his late forties, tall and calm, dressed in all black with silver-rimmed glasses. His great grandparent moved from india to Paris and they settled here.His handshake was firm, but his eyes were warm.

"Saisha," he said, pronouncing it like Saa-eesha. "It's good to have you here. Your work is raw but honest. That's rare."

I smiled.

He briefed me about the internship:

I'd be shadowing his team across various assignments - photo essays, fashion events, documentary fieldwork.

My stipend would be €1200/month.

Travel for assignments was covered.

And — best of all, they'd arranged an apartment nearby just for me.

"Your home for the next six months," he smiled, handing me the key. "Welcome to Paris, Miss Yadav."

I shook my head and replied " Mrs.Mishra".

He nodded with a polite smile.

The apartment was on Rue des Martyrs — a street as dreamy as its name.
A tiny elevator groaned its way up to the fourth floor, where I opened the door to my first home abroad.

It was perfect.

Cream walls, a small reading nook near the window, wooden floors, and a tiny kitchenette with mint green tiles. A bed tucked under a sloping roof, soft warm lights, and even a vintage record player in the corner.

There were two postcards pinned on the fridge. One read:

"Be brave."

I smiled, touched it gently, and whispered, "I will."

___________________________________________

Her First Day

My first official day started with strong French coffee and a shaky metro ride. At the studio, I was introduced to the team — Anaïs, a quirky stylist who called me "India sunshine," Luc, a silent editor with piercing eyes, and Éloïse, who handed me a croissant and said, "Welcome to chaos."

We worked on cataloging fashion shoot photos from the weekend. I helped select frames, adjust lighting levels, write captions. It was fast-paced, but exciting.

And though everything was foreign — the language, the pace, even the sandwiches — I felt like I belonged.

By night, Paris glowed under the street lamps. My window opened to a quiet lane where laughter floated from a nearby café. But I... I was waiting for a different kind of light.

I checked the time — it was 9:30 PM in Paris. Which meant... 2:00 AM in India.

I hesitated. Will he be asleep?

But before I could second-guess, my phone buzzed.

 Pranu calling...

I swiped quickly.

His sleepy face appeared on screen, hair messy, voice groggy. "Aishu..."

I broke into the biggest grin. "I was just about to call!"

"I set an alarm. Couldn't miss your first day," he said, rubbing his eyes.

I told him everything — about Julien, Mr. Rane, the team, the tiny kettle in my kitchen, the weird sandwich I ate.

He listened to it all with that soft smile, eyes twinkling through the screen.

Then he told me how he spent the day editing wedding photos, how our neighbour's kid tried to feed him a crayon, and how lonely the bed felt without my leg thrown over him.

We laughed. We got quiet.

Eventually, the words faded, but neither of us cut the call.

I placed the phone beside me, screen facing me. He did the same.

And like two kids sharing a pillow in a sleepover, we fell asleep — oceans apart, hearts intertwined.

We both drifted to sleep when the screen stayed on.

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