Seven.

Sitting here in Montmartre, I think Paris is the only city in the world that credibly challenges New York for its place in my heart.

I always wonder if who I am when I’m traveling is who I’m meant to be. Freed of my usual responsibilities, I lose myself in another city because I choose total immersion: I turn corners on a whim and drown my senses in the locale. Is it bacchanal, my all-consuming romanticism, loving so much that it hurts? On the other hand, it resurfaces both bad memories and underlying fears of unrequited attraction, but I can’t help it—it’s in my nature to feel as deeply as does the emotion of an unreleased Carly Rae Jepsen demo.

Tin is asleep in the seat next to mine now and I’m still waiting for the cabin crew to bring around some water to drink before I can take my melatonin, so I’ll narrate in the meanwhile.

Tin said he cried last night (finally—a bit of emotional release for him) until he was able to sleep around one o’clock. Poor guy. It’s been about five days for him and I expect it’ll go on for much longer. I don’t envy him.

I want to keep my attraction to him in check. I don’t want to fall so deeply for someone who won’t choose me—I need it to be reciprocal—and if it isn’t mutual then I’ll only be repeating past mistakes.

I picked him up outside his internship and we walked over to Penn Station together to take NJ Transit to Newark airport. At the check-in counter, I failed to get our seats reassigned away from the toilets; it’s a full flight. After going through TSA, we waited at the gate for over an hour, where he did his “dailies” (Duolingo and math) and taught me how to use TikTok.

I’m so thirsty. I would get up to get some water myself, but I’m wedged between two and I hate to disturb my neighbors, so I seethe in silence. When is beverage service going to begin—is it even happening on this airline? Or, do I need to call a steward for help?

It’s only after I’ve taken ten milligrams of melatonin and resigned myself to a parched sleep that they announce the commencement of beverage services, and I’m annoyed. I adjust Tin’s face mask to its proper position, admiring the length of his eyelashes yet thinking that whatever we have between us is likely doomed…

I finally get my cup of water and proceed to nap. Every time I take a red-eye flight, I tell myself never again, yet here I am.

We land at Orly and take the train into the city. At Hôtel de Venise, Tin naps for about an hour while I shower, brush my teeth, and then go outside to wander and familiarize myself with the surrounding neighborhood. When I return, relieved of the fifteen euros I’d brought and arms laden with pastries and bottles of water, he’s still trying to rest. “Five more minutes,” he promises. I give him twenty before rousing him, lips to his forehead and arm around his shoulders. We have a city to explore.

My favorite bistro in Marais doesn’t begin dinner service until 6, so I decide in favor of a detour to Lemaire, where everything is beautiful, but I’m honestly not tempted to make any new acquisitions given that their current inventory all rather closely resembles what I selected back in February. Ten minutes become twenty before we finally make our way to the bistro, where he recognizes a Bruin gymnast. We’re seated at a table in the catacombic downstairs room, and I’m finally reunited with my favorite duck confit. He orders a steak frites minus the frites and plus simple potatoes, over which we pile copious amounts of coarse salt. It’s divine, of course.

After finishing, we’re running a bit late in meeting my favorite friend, Tasos, for the evening’s Olympic beach volleyball match. Tin had wanted tickets to this event most because of its proximity to its stadium’s namesake, la Tour Eiffel, and our entire trip was only confirmed last week when I managed to secure our tickets. The 6 line isn’t functioning in part, ergo we’re forced to walk twenty minutes and across the Seine to the stadium proper. It’s a beautiful walk, so I won’t complain; I know all too well how lucky I am to be here.

We miss Netherlands losing to Norway due to our tardiness but witness Brazil and USA handily defeating Czechia and Germany. I’m stunned by the beauty of the venue. Moreover—the seats we purchased are perfectly positioned to give us an unobstructed view of the Eiffel towering over us. Given the demand for tickets, we were only able to take whatever we could get, so I thank fate for our luck. At ten, the tower glitters above us.

When the event concludes, Tasos has us follow him to a restaurant nearby owned by his friend. We gorge ourselves on delicious pizzas and blond beers, after which we decide to walk off the calories. But, Tasos has a surprise for us: instead of hopping onto a subway train, he leads us on a midnight bike ride from the west to the east of Paris, somewhat for Tin’s benefit because Tin’s never been able to properly explore the city. It feels slightly surreal, cycling between monuments and the Olympic flame after midnight, and it’s outside the glittering Louvre Pyramid that I think to myself how much I love my friends, who always go the extra proverbial (and, in this case, literal) mile for me. Under one of the magnificent adjacent archways, a stranger practices singing in operatic tones.

The next morning, I wake around eight, exhausted and possibly hungover. Tin begs off for more rest, so I let him sleep in. I see that Musée de l’Orangerie still has tickets available for the day; I decide to change our plans for the day so that he can sleep a little longer, doing Orangerie at noon instead of Orsay at nine-thirty when it opens. He asks for five more minutes of sleep; this time, I give him two hours, one of my arms draped around him as I doze with him.

On our way to Orangerie, I’m in good spirits because the city is infectiously jubilant and I reach to hold his hand. He accepts with the condition that I can hold it only for the duration of three hand swings; I’m slightly miffed by his response, so I try to prolong the swings for as long as I can just to savor the feeling of his hand within mine. Too soon, he pulls away.

At Orangerie, I stare into the colors of Les Nymphéas and think about my nascent frustration about my situation with Tin. I’d begun in recent weeks to acknowledge the true depths of my attraction to him, and I’d felt that he’d similarly acknowledged our chemistry, but I’m looking for my life partner and I’m wondering whether it could ever be him if he harbors unresolved feelings for his ex-boyfriend. Still, I have fun looking at art with him. He tells me what he sees in each piece, and I’m pensive about what I project into them. In the gift shop, I pore over presents for my friends’ children (including my godson); it’s a weird feeling to realize that I’ve transitioned to an adulthood where I no longer shop for only myself.

After Orangerie, we do some more shopping nearby before hitting up another of Tasos’s recommendations for lunch, where we eat some memorable potatoes and cheese. At Joseph Duclos, I pick up a perfume for Renee while joking with the shop’s owner, who explains to me that she’s developed a strict policy to look customers in the eye when returning their passports so they don’t come back later accusing her of not having done so. I feign panic, telling her I’ve lost mine; she mimes slapping me. She’s training a new sales associate who enters ‘o’ into the system when instructed to enter ‘eau’ and the four of us roar with laughter. She tells us that Americans are the only clients that ever come with a sense of humor. Mostly quiet throughout all of this but demonstrably able to follow along, Tin’s French is much better than he thinks.

As we head back to our hotel, everything explodes.

In Les Halles, I notice a photo booth and beg him to take pictures with me; I like to collect them, especially when traveling. For the second photo out of four, I move to kiss him, but he pulls away. I half-pout, wanting to know why, but he’s quite serious when he says it’s because we aren’t a couple. His comment stings, and I sulk while I try to work out why in my head.

The obvious reason is the implied rejection. I like him, I think he might like me, but it’s not anything unless we’re agreed that it’s something. Moreover, he’s undergoing his own emotional turmoil, and it’s just too soon. I apologize for putting him on the spot, but it’s half-hearted because I’m a bit morose. 

Around Bercy, I leave him to his friends. I’m not in a great mood and, besides, I’m late to meeting Tasos again—twice in two days. I miss my subway stop while writing this and find myself back at Saint Lazare, but that’s fine—I’m not in a rush, and it feels nice to be back in my old neighborhood. It’s raining and I’m somewhat worried about my clothes getting wet, but—to paraphrase Tin—the sky cries as it will. I need to get these words out of me while they’re fresh. 

I’m coming on to him too strongly while he’s not ready. My Venus is in Aries—I’m a true believer—and, after my year without water, I’m acutely aware of the sheer impossibility of finding even one person whose soul mirrors my own. I’ve known Tin for all of eight months now, but I’ve interacted with enough men to be able to intuit that the chemistry between us two is real and to appreciate its rarity, yet it’s all moot if he’s not willing or able to be as interested as I am in seeing where it leads us.

I put these thoughts on hold; the rest of my night awaits.

Dinner with Tasos turns out to be a birthday celebration amongst his friends. They’re a rambunctious crowd of expats in Paris, and I have a lot of fun getting to know each of them. The birthday boy’s beautiful girlfriend (originally from Milan; I think her name is Sylvia) tells me Paris is magical because living here is like living within a movie. (She also tells me to try Hinge in Paris and assesses my outfit with a critical eye, approving of everything except the shoes, which she says should be boots—she’s right, but I had chosen to be unfashionable for the sake of packing minimalism.) I spend the evening telling everyone that I agree. Paris is what New York used to, wants to, be. Paris is alive. Paris evokes within me the same emotion that New York once did, a decade ago, which was the youthful hope that anything and everything is possible; here, the food is better and public transportation is more efficient and art is everywhere and people are kind. I don’t care that I’m just a tourist; I don’t care for that nuance. Paris gives me hope that my life isn’t over.

There’s a cat on the awning across the street from the new father whose baby, sitting next to me, was born in the year of the dragon. Shots of alcohol tasting suspiciously like pineapple materialize because the local theater has closed for the night and its staff have descended upon us, amongst them a mythical drag queen who will allegedly perform for us—but in actuality I only see drunken women singing along to YouTube (“Pour Que Tu M’aimes Encore,” one of Céline’s most impassioned songs) at the bar. By now, I’ve had too much alcohol and not enough of anything else in my stomach, so I begin to snack on leftover baguettes taken from the restaurant’s kitchen corner section.

It’s well past midnight and Tasos again suggests biking back, but before doing so I recall that Tin, despite my sullen attitude towards him, has been wanting to photograph his Remy (of Ratatouille) plush toy with a baguette. I end up biking drunkenly through the streets of Paris with a fresh baguette spirited away from the bar (merci beaucoup), trying my best to neither get hit by traffic nor drop the baguette.

Upon my return, Tin’s still awake, waiting for me, and I hand him the baguette as I stumble through the door. 

That night, I don’t hold him as we sleep. I’m dejected; I feel rejected. By three o’clock, I’m still awake, so I check once more for tickets to Sunday’s artistic gymnastics event—I know it’s his favorite, and I don’t want this trip to go to waste.

Adrenaline jolts me wide awake when I see two available. I wake him, immediately, to ask him if he wants to go (although, I confess, I already knew he’d say yes—I just wanted some measure of acknowledgement from him). Still half-asleep, he says yes, and goes back to sleep. I purchase them, my heartbeat thundering throughout me, and the transaction is confirmed; the tickets are secured.

I wonder to myself what I’m doing.

The next morning, I once again can’t determine whether I’m still drunk or hungover or neither. Awkward silence persists between us through breakfast because I’m steadfastly avoiding eye contact. Over an omelet and viennoiseries and coffee and orange juice, the “proper” French breakfast that Sylvia had all but commanded me to eat while I’m still here, he asks if I’m mad at him. Briefly, curtly, and truthfully, I explain that I’m in my feelings but also that it should soon pass. I’m already physically and emotionally exhausted.

On the 14 to Saint-Denis, we don’t sit together. I watch him through his window reflection. He’s still the most beautiful man in the world.

I catch my own reflection and I’m forced to confront myself once more. I’ve given as much as I can give without overstepping his boundaries—and even then I’ve trespassed those limits—and it breaks my heart to know that this is it. This is as far as it will go.

I’m histrionic over text messages to my friends, who try valiantly to calm me down. Nyota reminds me to hold space for his grieving heart; Dana tells me to hold steady because she thinks he and I still have more adventures ahead of us. He’s an open wound, but I need not rush into a relationship with him right now if whatever we have between us is real and destined to be a long-term success.

Nyota cautions me against my bad habit of walking away when I need to compromise. I too have deep wounds from Henry denying me any chance at reconciliation or closure years ago, but she says that I’m also allowed a shot at a calmer and more communicative relationship, which she thinks he’s doing his best to curate. She interprets his hesitation as his willingness to be direct and honest with me.

I take a deep breath. I wonder how much better off I’d be if I’d just listen to the women in my life.

We’re walking towards the Olympic Village when, like clockwork, I’m a bit overcome with shame. Abruptly, I apologize to him, again, for real this time. I’m sorry for being so impetuous—it’s just that he’s reignited from deep within me a spark that I’d thought died out long ago, and getting to know him has changed me for the better. With grace and great ease, he forgives me.

I’d been keeping my distance, but we’re suddenly, thankfully, back to normal. We amble onward, together. 

The Olympic Village is closed to visitors, so we end up at Trocadero and La Defense in search of his desired Olympics souvenirs before returning to Bercy for the gymnastics event, where I watch him witness history being made. He’s exuberant, getting to be so close to some of his favorite athletes, and I know I’m down bad because I’m having fun just seeing his joy. I’d known that attending the Olympics for gymnastics was a lifelong dream of his, and I’d told him last week that I’d move heaven and earth to make it happen if he genuinely wanted to go. Being here, now, I’m quite pleased with myself. I don’t care how much this trip costs me; I’m a man of my word and it’s worth it to make him happy. 

It’s our last night in Paris together after the event. I ask him what he wants to eat, and he settles on a location that’s been on his list for some time. 

We’re walking around Pont Neuf when I decide to ask him if he would seriously consider giving us a chance, when his wounds aren’t so fresh. For the sake of my heart, I need to know whether he can envision us together at all, because I’m quite serious about him but also reluctant to pour my energy into him if it’s a definite no. I don’t need a right now; I’m happy to settle for continuing what we have and being open to the possibility of more. I’m relieved when he says yes, without hesitation.

I try to explain that my attraction to him isn’t superficial; I want to be sincere. I need him to know with certainty that the affection I’ve developed for him isn’t just because he’s cute; it’s also because he’s smart, he’s kind, he’s diligent, he’s opinionated. He’s not afraid to challenge me, to be straightforward with me, to volley with me, and that’s what I need. I need a true partner and not a sycophant; in him, I see that potential.

At Hà Nội 1988 Sao Vàng, we’re sat next to an older pair of diners. The auntie takes notice of him teaching me Vietnamese as we look over the menu and she seems nice, so I decide to strike up a conversation. Three languages flow between the four of us, with them speaking French to me and Vietnamese to him, and I’m so glad we came. She tells us she moved to Paris from Sài Gòn over forty years ago, inquires after his heritage, and informs us that we’ve found ourselves at the best Vietnamese restaurant in Paris. About the latter point, she’s quite right—Tin says their phở is better than any in New York, and I have full confidence in his expertise as an Orange County native. His unbridled delight at the flavors of his childhood makes my own eating experience that much better. 

I tease him, after dinner, as we walk through Paris towards my favorite speakeasy: if it isn’t me, ultimately, it needs to be someone better than me, someone who worships the very ground upon which he walks, or I’ll be even more upset. I can feel him rolling his eyes at me, in good nature.

I’ve been doing a lot of explaining, but I figure it’s best to let down my guard. It’s no longer a secret that I have a massive crush on him, so I’m trying to give it some context. The big breakup that has since defined my choices notwithstanding, my most recent true crush was four years ago, and then another six years for the one before that. It’s why I have a hard time reining in my excitement about him, yet still I can’t assume that it will be him because he’s not able to make a decision right now. As badly as I want it to be him, I can’t put all my eggs in one basket, I can’t preclude myself from meeting other people, because I can’t let myself be so shattered again.

Since my fallout with Henry, I’ve not let any man meet my friends. None of them have passed muster. But, it’s Tin out of all of them that has galvanized my friends for once. At least two (Nyota and Rhonda) are actually rooting for him—they’ve never seen me this enamored with anyone before. I’m reminded of the last conversation I ever had with Henry, wherein I tried to describe the impossibility of finding something real within the artifice of New York, and it’s why I’m now choosing to not let it escape me.

Upon reaching Candelaria, we’re two Southern Californians walking through a taqueria. We stay for just two drinks—the pandan cocktail is no longer on the menu, and it’s the one I most wanted him to try—before heading home. This time, he holds my hand.

I’m still convinced that I’m going to get my heart broken because I no longer trust men, but I want to try. Perhaps Paris, the “City of Love” and all that jazz, is rubbing off on me once again. It’s been forever since I’ve felt alive.

That night, in the middle of our sleep, I feel him pulling closer to me, and I kiss him. It’s moments like these that caused me to fall for him to begin with, and it’s dangerous because I’m already so close to behaving with him as I normally would with an actual partner.

I wake up first and try to gently rouse him for an early morning flight back to New York, telling him that he’s my favorite person in the world. Sleepily, eyes closed, he chastises me that that’s too much. Am I laying it on too thickly? How about one of my favorites? “That’s better.”

At the airport, I watch his flight leave me behind, an ocean rushing in between to separate him from me. Edmond Dantès sums all of human wisdom up in two words: ‘wait’ and ‘hope.’ Am I a lovesick puppy? Whatever—I prefer not to live a life un-lived, because it’s the more interesting option.

I’m back in Montmartre, my last day in Paris echoing my last day from when I was here in February. I look up at the steps I’d take to get up to a height with a city view worth beholding. It’s a bit of a trek, and I know every step I take will be just another step I’ll have to take back.

I decide to ascend, regardless.