I didn't know it was possible to simultaneously hate and ache for someone.

It's a physical sickness. Étienne. How much I love him.

I love Étienne.

I love it when he cocks an eyebrow whenever I say something he finds clever or amusing. I love listening to his boots clomp across my bedroom ceiling. I love that the accent over his first name is called an acute accent, and that he has a cute accent.

I love that.

I love sitting beside him in physics. Brushing against him during labs. His messy handwriting on our worksheets. I love handing him his backpack when class is over, because then my fingers smell like him for the next ten minutes. And when Amanda says something lame, and he seeks me out to exchange an eye roll — I love that, too. I love his boyish laugh and his wrinkled shirts and his ridiculous knitted hat. I love his large brown eyes, and the way he bites his nails, and I love his hair so much I could die.

There's only one thing I don't love about him. Her.

I'm saying I'm in love with you! I've been in love with you this whole bleeding year!

I flip back to the front, and the stamp stares at me. Shakespeare and Company, Kilometer Zero Paris. And I'm back on the star, that first night. Falling in love with him. And I'm back on the star, over Thanksgiving break. Falling in love with him. And I'm back in my room, staring at this ill-timed book — Why didn't he just tell me? Why didn't I open this when he asked me about it last Christmas? — when I'm struck by a need to return to Point Zéro.

What are you working on?" I ask.
"The last page." He gestures towards the table, where a pencilled sketch is being turned into inked brushstrokes. It's a drawing of us, in this café, in this moment.
I smile up at him "It's beautiful. But what comes next?"
"The best part." And he pulls me back into his arms. "The happily ever after.

We've stopped in front of Notre-Dame again. I point at the familiar star and clear my throat. "Wanna make another wish?"

"You go first." He's watching me, puzzled, like he's trying to figure something out. He bites his thumbnail.

This time I can't help it. All day long, I've thought about it. Him. Our secret.

I wish St. Clair would spend the night again.

He steps on the coppery-bronze star after me and closes his eyes. I realize he must be wishing about his mother, and I feel guilty that she didn't even cross my mind. My thoughts are only for St. Clair.

( . . . )

Do I see the same St. Clair everyone else does? No. I don't think so. But I could be mistaking our friendship for something more, because I want to mistake it for something more.