You know this saying "Paris is the most romantic country in the world?". Yeah that. Well for your information it's not. Those are just legend people tell themselves to survive the loneliness. Because behind the shinning lights and fancy café, there is a darker kind of truth. Types are: Broken promises, cheap perfumes, wine bottles rolling under the couch.
That is the Paris Amy know.
The night, the city was quiet. Rain had just stopped, the streets shone under the yellow lights. Amy walked home with her coat pulled tight, her shoes splashing through puddles. She passed by couples laughing, holding hands, whispering like love was easy. She wished she could feel that way soft, safe, wanted. But she didn't. Love, to her, felt like a story told to children to make them sleep. It wasn't real. Not in her world.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Bridget: "Party at my place tonight! You coming?"
Amy looked at the screen for a long time. Then she put the phone back in her pocket and kept walking. Her apartment sat at the edge of the city, where the lights faded and the buildings leaned close together like tired people. The hallway smelled like smoke and old food. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. The TV was on. Her dad was asleep on the couch, an empty bottle on the floor. Her mom's perfume hung heavy in the air, though she was nowhere to be found. Maybe not coming back tonight.
Amy dropped her bag by the door and stood there for a moment. The room was silent except for the ticking clock and her father's slow breathing.
She picked up the bottle, set it on the table and she whispered, "You said you'd stop"
Of course, he didn't answer. He never did.
Amy turned off the TV, walked to her small room, and closed the door behind her. For a second, she leaned her head against it and let out a long breath. Paris was loud outside, but in her world, everything felt quiet and a little broken.