The note was tucked beneath a small stone on the windowsill outside Beth's room, right where the light from the fjord spilled in each morning. She found it just after sunrise, when the house was still quiet and the only sound was the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional cry of gulls.
The envelope was unmarked—no name, no flourish. Just folded paper, slightly creased, the kind of handwriting that looked like it had been done with thought but not care. She unfolded it with trembling fingers.
Beth,
I will be away for a few weeks.
I'm sorry I couldn't say this in person. There were things I should've explained, and perhaps I will when I return.
And I will return.
I don't know when. My absence may feel indefinite—but it isn't. Not really. Not to me.
Some places leave marks. Some people more so.
You are both.
– Lenored A. Forchevelle
Beth sat on the edge of the bed, the note shaking slightly in her hands.
Outside, the world went on—Reine bathed in morning gold, the smell of breakfast beginning to drift up from the kitchen, the sound of Amanda's footsteps somewhere downstairs. But in that moment, everything inside her felt paused, suspended like the sun that never fully set.
He was gone.
Not forever.
But not tomorrow either.
And she hadn't even had the chance to ask him who he really was.
Rosalind sat alone at a café in Los Angeles, sunglasses perched on her head, espresso cooling in front of her. The streets shimmered in that West Hollywood haze—over-bright, over-heard, the kind of day where everyone pretended to be on the verge of something.
She stirred her coffee slowly and thought, I know all your dogs' names.
James Dean. Marlon Brando. Clark Gable.
Rosalind didn't even like dogs that much. But she had spent enough afternoons—on sets, rooftops, silent garden patios—watching Leon's Pekingese prance around in circles, yapping like tiny, spoiled gods.
And Leon?
He didn't even like them. Not really.
"He's faintly allergic," she thought bitterly, eyes narrowing behind the dark lenses. "He sneezes within thirty seconds of them brushing against his jeans."
It was never Leon who played with them. Not once had she seen him toss a ball or scratch behind their ears. He'd flinch when their fur stuck to his black coats. It was always the girlfriends. Or the ex-girlfriends. Or the bros.
Rene had been photographed walking all three at the Hollywood Reservoir at dawn, hoodie up, earbuds in, looking like a reluctant godfather.
Gabe had once dressed James Dean in a miniature Balenciaga scarf "as a bit," and posted it on his private finsta with the caption "method barking."
And Clare—Clare, the so-called platonic soulmate—had trained Clark Gable to sit. Sit. On command. Clare didn't even live in the country half the year.
But Leon?
Leon had simply said, one day:
"I want one of those."
Not even three. One. Singular.
Rosalind had been there. It was during some artsy gallery opening in Silver Lake. The dogs were in a designer tote bag at someone's feet—glassy eyes, underbites, feathery tails twitching.
He looked at them and said, in the same tone he'd once used when declaring, "I want to go to India," or "I think I'll learn the mandolin,":
"Huh. I want one of those."
And the next week, he had three. Just like that.
It wasn't for image—Rosalind could understand image. Could forgive image. If anything, the dogs disrupted the image. They were loud and messy and ruined the pristine, melancholy air Leon always seemed to carry like a pressed flower in his breast pocket.
And yet, there they were. Always with him. On vacations. At premieres. At dinners. He carted them around in monogrammed carriers, brought them to Paris, to Tokyo, to upstate cabins no one knew he rented.
But he never learned to tell them apart.
He once asked Rosalind, "Where's Brando?" when he was holding Brando.
She had smiled then. The indulgent smile of a woman in love.
Now she just stirred her coffee a little harder.
The photograph, when it hit the internet, was instantly iconic.
Paris–Charles de Gaulle Airport. Twilight. The terminal bathed in the weary, gold-filtered light of travel and disinterest. Leon Troy—or Lenored A. Forchevelle, depending on your gossip blog of choice—caught in motion, head bowed, hand up to shield his face from the swarm of camera flashes. His brown leather jacket clung like it belonged in a 1970s film about a man who'd seen too much. A white shirt beneath it, rumpled just enough to look deliberate. His sunglasses were clipped to his collar, reflecting the ceiling lights like two blank, silver eyes.
He walked fast, jaw tight, his body slicing through the terminal like he meant to outrun his own name.
Behind him—dragged, literally—was Bar.
She looked flawless, as always. Honey-blonde hair tied back in a neat twist, sunglasses on despite the hour. She clutched her own carry-on—a quilted designer roller that looked like it cost more than the average apartment lease—and struggled slightly to keep up with Leon's long strides.
In the photograph, it might have seemed touching, romantic even: a celebrity shielding his girlfriend from the frenzy of paparazzi. The angle was good, the light just soft enough to blur out the crowd, the motion giving the image a cinematic sheen.
But what the photograph didn't show—what the tabloids would certainly miss—was that Bar was the only one carrying her own luggage.
Several steps behind, Valentina and René moved at a steady pace, each with their own carry-ons. Neither wore expressions of surprise or inconvenience. They'd done this before.
Behind them, the dog nanny, a weary woman in orthopedic shoes, cradled a carrier with all three Pekingese—James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Clark Gable—yelping and rattling in protest. In her other hand? Her own suitcase.
Two bodyguards flanked the group like moving statues. One dragged Leon's checked suitcase. The other held his own.
Leon carried nothing.
Not a bag. Not a camera. Not a leash. Not even a shared umbrella.
Only his phone, tucked in the right pocket of his jacket, the outline of it barely visible beneath the soft leather.
To the camera's lens, he was brooding and burdened.
To the world's eye, a man protecting his muse.
But to anyone watching closely?
He was just a man with empty hands, moving fast, while everyone else picked up the weight he never thought to touch.
Bar was used to chaos, but this was absurd.
As Leon tugged her through the twilight-soaked terminal, his grip wrapped loosely around her wrist, she barely had time to adjust her footing in her heeled boots. Her carry-on thudded along behind her, one wheel perpetually wobbling as if protesting the entire trip.
At least, she thought wryly, breath catching in her throat, I'm not the one carrying the dogs.
Leon's hand—soft, warm, absurdly well-moisturized—remained the most luxurious thing about this entire situation. These were not the hands of a man who carried bags or opened car doors. These were the hands of someone who hadn't so much as zipped his own jacket since sixth form in London. His grip was light, practically symbolic, and Bar wasn't even sure he realized he was dragging her.
But she didn't complain.
Because she was in the headlines.
She was the girlfriend.
And she was still in love with him—Leon, and maybe more than that, with the idea of Leon: the myth, the melancholy, the spotlight, the curated disorder of it all.
Behind her, Valentina was flagging. Her heels clicked unevenly, breath short, eyes slightly narrowed. She hadn't come on this trip for fun. She'd come because it was Leon, and because René had begged her—Val, please, I can't third-wheel with Bar and Leo across Paris, you owe me. And maybe because a part of her still liked watching Leon up close, like observing a fragile piece of kinetic sculpture that had no idea it was art.
At least, thought Valentina grimly, he's footing the bill.
René was lagging, too, texting so fervently he'd stopped moving entirely. He was standing like a statue of distraction, phone in one hand, bag in the other, halfway through a message to Kevin—Leon and René's mutual best friend, wingman, secret confidant, and recipient of at least thirty-five low-quality airport selfies per trip.
The dog nanny finally caught up, huffing beneath the weight of three restless, high-strung Pekingese and her own overstuffed suitcase. She nearly plowed into René, who hadn't noticed the world had kept spinning without him.
Valentina had paused beside him, not out of interest, but pure exhaustion. Her spine ached, and her suitcase handle had jammed five minutes ago.
Bar, meanwhile, was still being dragged by Leon. Her heels protested with every step, her luggage whined on one wheel like it shared her sentiment.
Leon didn't say a word.
Didn't look back.
He didn't notice the dwindling procession behind him, didn't register that his entire entourage looked like the losing end of a reality show scavenger hunt.
He stopped—finally, decisively.
But not because Bar was breathless.
Not because René had stopped moving.
Not because Valentina looked like she'd kill a man for a bottle of still water.
Not even because the dog nanny's left eye had begun to twitch.
No, Leon stopped because he had arrived at baggage claim.
He stood there, hands still empty, gaze unreadable beneath the terminal lights, waiting for something or someone—likely his suitcase, certainly not his friends.
Bar exhaled and straightened her posture.
She was in the headlines.
She would smile tomorrow.
But tonight, she was just another carry-on.
As soon as Leon reached baggage claim and his hand was freed from Bar's wrist, the first thing he did—instinctively, reflexively—was reach into the pocket of his perfectly worn leather jacket and pull out his phone.
The screen blinked awake in his hand. A message from Gabe.
yo—u land yet? kevin says the cafe in montmartre is still open late. meet?
Leon's thumbs were already moving before he'd finished reading it.
Because Leon always responded. Instantly. Whether it was Gabe or Kevin, Bar or Rene, Aglaya or Clare, or even some girl from a festival in Ibiza whose name he couldn't recall but who still sent him blurry photos of sunsets and quotes from Sylvia Plath.
It didn't matter.
Leon replied.
That was the one thing everyone could agree on.
You could ghost him, but he wouldn't ghost you.
At least, not with a message. Emotionally? Maybe. But texts? Never.
It had become a kind of running joke among the people orbiting him—everyone had their own version of it:
"I bet he texts back before I even hit send."
"He replies to his exes faster than my boyfriend replies to his boss."
"Leon's like an overpaid customer service line with heartbreak and cheekbones."
He even once responded to an accidental group text meant for someone named Leona with, "Wrong number, but sounds intense. Hope it works out."
And Beth?
No one had even mentioned her name.
Because, of course, he had already forgotten her.
Not out of cruelty.
Just… volume.
He had too many flings, too many passing fascinations, too many stolen-moment girls who made him laugh once, or quote Rilke, or follow him up a hill with hope clutched in their fists.
Beth had been one of many. One with haunting eyes and borrowed cloaks and that fleeting shimmer of sincerity.
But Leon's sincerity was shallow, not because it was fake—no, it was real while it lasted—but because it never lasted.
Everyone knew the only female constants in his life were:
—His mother, who texted him every Sunday about lemon water and missed appointments.
—His stepmother, who paid for half his flights and reminded him to wear SPF.
—Clare, his platonic soulmate, who had once said, "You're the worst kind of romantic—charming but not loyal."
—And Aglaya.
Everyone else?
Bar, Valentina, Rosalind, the girl from Naples, the one from Goa, Beth?
They were beautiful echoes.
Soft and fading.
He hit send on the message to Gabe.
Then slipped the phone back into his pocket.
And never thought of Beth again.