It feels as though I’ve become incapable of following through on the decision to move away from Balmain. Somewhere in the back of my brain, the thought rests that it would be futile to take a big step like moving house and neighborhood right now. There’s too much turmoil going on in my mind and, even though I’m not willing to admit this to myself out loud, I feel like I need to keep my mind clear to focus on another, more important decision.

Because I regularly find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror and asking myself why I’m doing this. Yes, of course, the practicalities of my life don’t allow me to see Camille in France. And the same goes for her. The distance we harbor between us is too vast for many things, but it isn’t for the love I feel for her and the way it multiplies in magnitude and force every single day. Some nights, when I can’t sleep because my mind is too wound up thinking about her and trying to come up with creative ways to bridge the distance, all I can think of is the moment we’ll finally be together again. How it will make me feel. To wake up next to her every day. Go to sleep kissing her goodnight. And I ask myself which sacrifices I’m willing to make. If the time comes—and if my visit to Paris goes well—would I be willing to make the ultimate one? Would I be willing to leave Australia? Start a new life in France—a country where I can’t even speak the language?

In the dead of night, darkness all around me, when my decision doesn’t carry much weight, my answer is always an astoundingly easy yes. Because I know that a woman like Camille only comes along every so often. I’m forty-seven. For me, she might be the last one to ever present herself the way she did. Cocking a smile and seizing my heart in the process.