Hearts in the Light

The Artist and the Designer

Chapter 2: As Yves loses himself in his art, Charlotte feels unseen — until thoughts of Jacklyn awaken a longing she can’t ignore.

The apartment on Rue Saint-Paul smelled faintly of turpentine, daisies, and freshly brewed coffee.

Charlotte stood by the window, watching the sunlight filter through the curtains, brushing over Yves’s half-finished sculpture — a marble form caught between motion and stillness.

Yves was already at work, bare-chested beneath his apron, clay smudged on his arms. His hands moved with focus, molding the delicate curve of a woman’s shoulder from stone. When he worked, the world around him disappeared — even her.

Charlotte admired that about him. It was part of what drew her to him when they first met at an art exhibition two years ago. He had looked at her not as a stranger, but as though he’d known her soul in another life. They had fallen in love quickly, consumed by art, laughter, and a kind of shared solitude.

But now, as she stood quietly at the doorway, she wondered when that warmth had started to fade into silence.

“Tu es réveillée tôt,” Yves said without turning around. You’re up early.

“I went for coffee,” Charlotte replied, setting her sketchbook on the table.

“With the same café?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “You know me too well.”

He nodded, his hands never stopping their rhythm. “The one with the new barista, right? You talk about that place often.”

Charlotte’s heart skipped slightly. “Yes. Jacklyn. She’s nice.”

Yves finally looked up, a small grin on his lips. “You make friends easily, my love. That’s one of the things I envy about you.”

Charlotte walked closer, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “And I envy how you can lose yourself in your work so completely.”

He laughed softly. “We balance each other, then.”

But even as he said it, Charlotte felt the words hang between them — not quite true.

She watched him return to his sculpture, his focus narrowing again. A faint loneliness settled inside her, the kind that didn’t come from being unloved, but from feeling unseen.

She sat at her desk and opened her sketchbook to a blank page. Her hand hesitated before moving, but instead of drawing dresses or fabrics, she began tracing the curve of lips again — full, smiling, familiar.

She stopped. Her chest tightened.

It was Jacklyn’s face again.

“Something wrong?” Yves’s voice broke her thoughts.

“No, just… distracted,” she murmured, quickly closing the book.

He smiled at her without looking up. “That’s how you know you’re an artist — the mind never rests.”

Charlotte forced a smile in return. But inside, her thoughts were restless in ways she didn’t understand.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the Paris rooftops, they shared dinner quietly — pasta, a bottle of red wine, and the faint sound of jazz playing from the radio. Yves talked about an upcoming exhibit, his dream of opening a small studio along the Seine.

Charlotte listened, nodding, but her thoughts drifted. She pictured the café, the sound of Jacklyn’s laughter, the light in her eyes.

“Charlotte,” Yves said softly, drawing her back. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Just tired.”

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “You know I love you, yes?”

She smiled, guilt pricking at her heart. “I know.”

He kissed her knuckles gently. “Then rest, mon amour. Tomorrow will be brighter.”

Later, when Yves was asleep beside her, Charlotte lay awake staring at the ceiling. The moonlight cast pale patterns across the room, illuminating the sketches scattered on her desk.

And she realized, for the first time, she was afraid —

not of losing Yves,

but of what she was beginning to find within herself.