"Tell me again why we're going to a museum full of heartbreak?" Ren asked, adjusting his scarf like it would shield him from emotional damage.
"Because," Noa said, walking ahead with her coffee, "you said yesterday that you were emotionally mature."
"I said I was *trying* to be emotionally mature."
"Same difference."
The Museum of Broken Relationships was tucked away in a quiet alley, less touristy than the Louvre, but far more existential.
It didn't boast marble statues or masterpieces. Instead, it displayed what people left behind: a single earring, a burnt wedding dress, a post-it note with the words "Don't wait up."
"I'm already sweating," Ren whispered as they stepped inside.
Noa smirked. "Good. That means it's working."
—
Each exhibit came with a short story.
A key from a shared apartment in Berlin.
A cassette tape labeled "For When You Miss Me."
A cracked phone with one unsent message: *"I'm sorry."*
Ren stood in front of a box of mix CDs and read the plaque:
*"We never liked the same songs. But he made these for me anyway."*
"That's... kinda sweet," he muttered.
Noa was silent next to him.
He glanced at her.
She was looking at a faded photo of two women laughing in a kitchen, the caption reading: *"We were best friends before we kissed. After that, we couldn't go back."*
Noa blinked slowly.
Then said, "Some things feel too real."
Ren nodded. "Yeah."
They moved on.
A teddy bear from a high school breakup.
A dog leash from a shared adoption that ended badly.
A wedding invitation never sent.
The air in the museum was heavy—but not sad. More like sitting in a room where everyone was quietly telling the truth.
—
They found a bench halfway through. Sat down. Didn't speak.
Then Noa broke the silence.
"What would you leave behind?"
Ren looked over. "In this museum?"
"Yeah. If we—" She paused. "If we ever broke."
Ren didn't answer right away.
Then: "I'd leave that dumb cat umbrella."
Noa smiled softly.
"The neon one?"
He nodded. "Yeah. The one from Korea. The one that broke halfway and soaked us both."
She laughed quietly. "I still have it."
"Of course you do."
"And you?"
Ren tilted his head. "You mean what would you leave behind?"
She nodded.
Noa thought about it.
Then said, "That train ticket from the first time we sat next to each other. Tokyo to Kamakura. You spilled juice on my notebook."
"You kept that?"
"It dried weird. The stain looks like a lopsided heart."
Ren chuckled, but it faded quickly.
There was something unsaid between them now.
A crack forming. Not breaking—but widening.
Not out of anger.
Out of *realness.*
Because walking through a room filled with the end of things has a way of forcing you to acknowledge what could be lost.
Noa leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
"I don't want to be in this museum someday," she said.
Ren blinked.
"I mean us," she clarified. "Whatever we are. I don't want it to end up as a story behind glass."
He swallowed. "Me neither."
She looked at him.
"We're not really careful, are we?" she said. "We pretend to be. But we're walking on a tightrope and laughing like it's solid ground."
Ren nodded slowly. "We don't even have a safety net."
Noa whispered, "I think I'm scared because this already means too much."
Another pause.
Then Ren said, "That's the only reason I haven't run."
Their eyes locked.
Soft.
Unsure.
But honest.
And somehow, that mattered more than anything else.
—
Outside, Paris was still cloudy, but the air felt lighter.
They didn't speak for a while.
Just walked.
Until Noa slipped her hand into his.
No announcement.
No question.
Just fingers, interlocked, quietly saying:
*Let's not end up behind glass.*