They met at the opening of a photography exhibition in the 3rd arrondissement — a show about negative space. Théo had designed the installation. Margot was there to review the catalogue typography.

Neither of them looked at the photographs. They spent the entire evening standing in the corner, arguing quietly about whether a comma could carry the same weight as a column.

Two years of long walks and shorter silences later, Théo asked her in a single, handwritten line on the last page of a book he had made just for her.

She turned the page. There was nothing else written. That was the point.