Page 2 of My French Love Affair

I used to think this was nice.Comforting, even.

Now I feel like I’ve been trapped in a pastel rom-com montage I didn’t sign up for.

As we pass a couple sitting on a bench, I notice the way the woman laughs so hard she’s clutching her sides, while the man beside her gazes at her like she’s the only person in the world.

My stomach twists.

Why don’t I feel like that with Noah?

He does everything right. He listens to podcasts about fashion to try and understand my world. He sends me flowers just because. He practically jumps at the opportunity to rub my back or my feet anytime I so much as wince in discomfort.

Once, he even surprised me with a romantic boat ride on the Thames. I threw up halfway through due to motion sickness, but still, it’s the thought that counts.

And yet, despite all of that -

I’m just not feeling it.

“Come on," Noah says suddenly, tugging my hand. "Let me take you to that cute café you love. The one with the tiny chairs and the overpriced pastries."

"Artisan & Bean?"

"That's the one,” he nods. “You deserve a treat."

I follow along, guilt gnawing at me.

He’s thoughtful and attentive and everything I should want.

But when he squeezes my hand and winks, whispering “let me spoil my little petal,” I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from groaning.

* * *

Artisan & Bean is as pretentious as the name suggests, with tiny tables(aesthetic over comfort)and pastries almost too pretty to eat.

Noah orders a cappuccino and a rosewater macaron, while I opt for an oat milk flat white and an almond croissant. We settle at a corner table, and within seconds, he’s fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket, eyes lighting up with excitement.

"Oh! I forgot to show you this earlier,” he says. “Do you want to see what I made for us?”

I brace myself.

"Is it another hand-written poem about our cosmic connection?"

Unfortunately, I’m only half-joking.

His smile falters. "No - that was just a fun creativeexperiment."

Right.Fun.

I particularly liked the one where he rhymedPoppywithwon’t ever be sloppy.

But no - it's not poetry this time. It’sworse.

It’s a Spotify playlist.

Noah & Poppy: Our Love in Songs.

Oh no.

I scroll through the disaster zone that is the tracklist and inhale sharply.

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