Chapter 5: The First Morning

Sush wakes to voices she doesn't recognize.

The hostel room is bright — too bright. Sunlight streams through the window. Two girls are talking in a language she can't place. German, maybe. Or Dutch. One of them laughs.

Sush sits up. Her body aches from the flight, from the narrow bunk bed, from the weight of everything she's done in the past twenty-four hours.

She checks her phone. 9:47 AM.

She slept for thirteen hours.

There are seven messages from her mother, three from Rahul, one from Kunal.

Ma: good morning beta. how is the workshop?

Ma: did you have breakfast?

Ma: call me when you're free

Guilt twists in her stomach. She types a quick reply:

Sush: morning ma. workshop is good. very busy. will call later.

Then she scrolls to Rahul's messages.

Rahul: how's paris

Rahul: did you sleep

Rahul: text me when you wake up i want to know everything

She smiles.

Sush: just woke up. paris is... real. im still processing.

Rahul: go explore

Rahul: stop texting me and go see the city

She puts her phone down. Gets up. The other girls in the dorm are gone now — just their belongings scattered around. Sush grabs her towel and toiletries and finds the bathroom down the hall.

The shower is tiny. The water pressure is weak. But it's hot, and she stands under it for longer than necessary, letting the heat unknot her shoulders.

When she's dressed — jeans, a plain white kurta, her hair still damp — she goes downstairs.

The hostel's common area is crowded. Backpackers from everywhere, speaking languages she doesn't know, eating breakfast from the small buffet table. Bread, jam, butter, coffee, orange juice.

Sush takes a plate. Sits at a corner table.

A guy sits down across from her.

He's maybe twenty-five. Blond hair, blue eyes, a backpack with Australian flag patches.

"Mind if I sit?" he asks.

She's already eating, so the question is pointless, but she nods anyway.

"First time in Paris?" he asks.

"Yeah. You?"

"Third. I'm Liam." He extends a hand.

She shakes it. His palm is warm, rough. "Sush."

"Sush," he repeats, testing the sound. "Where are you from?"

"India. Pune."

"Ah, cool. I've been to India. Goa, Rajasthan, Kerala."

Of course he has. Every white backpacker has been to India.

"What brings you to Paris?" he asks.

She hesitates. What's the answer? I'm running away from my job and my life and my own head?

"Just traveling," she says.

"Solo?"

"Yeah."

He grins. "Brave. I like it."

There's something in the way he says it — I like it — that makes her stomach flutter.

She's not used to this. Guys noticing her. Guys talking to her like she's interesting.

In Pune, she's just Sush. Five feet tall, looks like a kid, always late, always overthinking. The girl who works with autistic kids and talks about nosy and has a new crush every two months but never does anything about it.

But here, in this hostel in Paris, she's just a girl traveling solo. And that's apparently enough to be interesting.

"You doing anything today?" Liam asks.

"I don't know. I was thinking of just walking around."

"Want company?"

Her heart skips.

This is it. This is the moment where she could say yes. Where she could let something happen.

But she's terrified.

"I'm okay," she says. "I kind of want to be alone today."

He doesn't look offended. Just shrugs. "Fair enough. If you change your mind, I'm in room 7. We're going to a bar tonight in the Marais. You should come."

"Maybe."

He finishes his coffee. Stands. "See you around, Sush."

And then he's gone.

She sits there, staring at her half-eaten bread.

She could have said yes.

She should have said yes.

But she didn't.

---

Paris in March is cold and beautiful.

Sush walks for hours. No plan, no map, just her phone's GPS and her feet and the city unfolding around her.

She walks through Montmartre, past the Sacré-Cœur, down narrow streets lined with cafés and art shops. She walks along the Seine, watching the boats and the tourists and the couples holding hands. She walks past the Louvre, the Tuileries, the Place de la Concorde.

Everything smells different here. Bread and coffee and cigarette smoke and something floral she can't name.

She buys a crepe from a street vendor (€5, Nutella and banana) and eats it while sitting on a bench near the river.

Her phone buzzes.

Kunal: how's goa

She stares at the message.

She's in Paris. She's eating a crepe by the Seine. She's lying to everyone she knows.

Sush: good. learning a lot.

She puts her phone away.

By the time she gets back to the hostel, it's 7 PM. Her feet hurt. Her body is exhausted. But her mind is buzzing.

She's in Paris.

She's actually in Paris.

In the hostel common area, a group is gathering. Liam is there, along with four other people — two girls, two guys. They're drinking cheap wine from plastic cups.

Liam sees her. Waves. "Sush! You came back. We're heading to the bar in twenty. You in?"

She should say no. She should go to bed. She should be responsible.

But she's in Paris.

And she didn't come here to be responsible.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm in."

---

The bar is in the Marais, down a narrow street that smells like rain and old stone.

It's small, crowded, loud. Music she doesn't recognize. People speaking French and English and other languages all at once.

Sush orders a beer (€6) and stands near the wall, watching.

Liam is talking to one of the girls — a tall brunette with a German accent. The other guys are playing darts. The second girl, a redhead with an American accent, comes over to Sush.

"You're the Indian girl, right? Liam mentioned you."

"Yeah. Sush."

"Emma. From California." She extends a hand. "First time in Europe?"

"Yeah."

"How are you finding it?"

"Overwhelming."

Emma laughs. "Yeah, it's a lot. But you'll get used to it. How long are you here for?"

"Fifteen days."

"Damn. That's not much time. You doing the whole backpacker circuit? Amsterdam, Barcelona, Rome?"

"Something like that."

"Nice. You'll love Amsterdam. It's wild."

Sush takes a sip of her beer. It tastes bitter, yeasty. She's not much of a drinker — back in Pune, she'll have one beer at a party and nurse it all night. But here, she drinks faster.

The music shifts. Something with a heavy beat. People start dancing.

Liam appears next to her. "You want to dance?"

She's never been a good dancer. She's always self-conscious, always worried about how she looks.

But the beer is warm in her stomach, and the music is loud, and she's in Paris.

"Okay," she says.

They move to the center of the room. The space is tight — bodies pressed together, the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. Liam's hands find her waist. Not aggressive, just there. Guiding her.

She's five feet tall. He's at least six. She has to tilt her head back to see his face.

"You're tiny," he says, grinning.

"I know."

"It's cute."

Her stomach flutters again.

They dance. Or rather, they move to the music. His hands stay on her waist. She's hyper-aware of every point of contact — his palms through the fabric of her kurta, the heat of his body, the way he smells like soap and beer.

She's never been this close to a guy who isn't her ex.

And her ex never made her feel like this.

The song ends. Another starts. Liam leans down, his mouth near her ear.

"You want to get out of here?"

Her heart is pounding.

This is it.

This is the moment.

She could say no. She could go back to the hostel. She could be safe.

Or she could say yes.

She looks up at him. His blue eyes. His easy grin.

"Okay," she says.

---

They don't go far.

Just outside the bar, into the narrow street. The air is cold. Sush's breath comes out in clouds.

Liam pulls her into a doorway. His hands are on her waist again, but firmer now. Intentional.

"You're really pretty," he says.

It's such a simple line. Such an obvious line.

But it works.

Because she's never felt pretty. She's always felt small, awkward, too much and not enough at the same time.

But right now, in this doorway in Paris, with this Australian guy looking at her like she's something worth looking at—

She feels pretty.

He kisses her.

It's not like kissing her ex. That was tentative, careful, two teenagers who didn't know what they were doing.

This is different.

Liam kisses like he knows exactly what he's doing. His mouth is warm, insistent. His tongue tastes like beer. One hand stays on her waist; the other moves to her face, tilting her chin up.

Sush's brain goes blank.

She's kissing a stranger in Paris.

She's kissing a stranger in Paris and it feels good.

His hand slides down from her waist to her hip. Then lower, to the curve of her ass. He squeezes, gently, and she gasps into his mouth.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs.

She nods. She can't speak.

He kisses her harder. His body presses against hers, pinning her to the door. She can feel him — all of him. The hardness of his chest, his thighs, and something else, something hard pressing against her stomach.

She's never felt that before.

Her ex never got hard when they kissed. Or maybe he did and she just didn't notice.

But she notices now.

Liam's hand moves under her kurta, fingers brushing the bare skin of her waist. She shivers.

"You're shaking," he says, pulling back slightly.

"I'm cold."

"You want to go back to the hostel?"

She should say yes. She should stop this before it goes further.

But she doesn't want to stop.

"Not yet," she says.

He grins. Kisses her again.

His hand moves higher, under her kurta, over her ribs. His thumb brushes the underside of her breast, over her bra.

She makes a sound — half gasp, half moan.

He pulls back. Looks at her.

"Have you done this before?" he asks.

She could lie. She could pretend she's experienced, confident, the kind of girl who hooks up with strangers in foreign cities.

But she's not.

"No," she says.

He doesn't look surprised. Just nods. "Do you want to?"

The question hangs in the cold air.

Do you want to?

She thinks about her ex. About the way he cheated on her. About the way he still messages her, saying he craves her, like she's something to consume.

She thinks about her job. About Priya-ma'am's tired eyes. About the pale yellow walls and the fluorescent hum.

She thinks about the way she's been living — small and safe and stuck.

And she thinks: I want to feel something.

"Yes," she says.

---

They go back to the hostel.

Liam's room is on the second floor — a private room, not a dorm. He unlocks the door and pulls her inside.

The room is small. A double bed, a window overlooking the street, a backpack in the corner.

He kisses her again as soon as the door closes. Harder this time, more urgent.

His hands are everywhere — her waist, her hips, her ass, her breasts. She's never been touched like this. Never been wanted like this.

It's overwhelming.

It's everything.

He pulls her kurta over her head. She's standing in her jeans and bra, and she's suddenly self-conscious. Her body is small, unremarkable. She's never thought of herself as sexy.

But Liam is looking at her like she's the only thing in the room.

"You're beautiful," he says.

She doesn't believe him.

But she wants to.

He takes off his shirt. His body is lean, tanned, muscled in a way that comes from surfing or climbing or some other activity she's never done.

He pulls her to the bed. They fall onto it, a tangle of limbs and breath and heat.

His mouth moves from her lips to her neck. He bites gently, and she gasps. His hand slides down her stomach, to the button of her jeans.

"Can I?" he asks.

She nods.

He unbuttons her jeans. Slides them down her legs. She's in her underwear now — plain black cotton, nothing special.

He doesn't seem to care.

His hand moves between her thighs, over her underwear. She's wet — she can feel it, the slickness, the heat.

She's never been this turned on in her life.

He rubs her through the fabric, slow circles, and she arches into his hand.

"You like that?" he murmurs.

She can't speak. Just nods.

He slides her underwear to the side. His fingers find her — bare skin, slick and sensitive.

She moans.

He slides one finger inside her.

It's strange. Not painful, just... strange. A fullness she's never felt before.

He moves his finger slowly, in and out, and she feels something building. A pressure, a heat, something she's never felt when she tried to touch herself.

"Relax," he says. "Just feel it."

She tries. She closes her eyes. Focuses on the sensation — his finger inside her, his thumb on her clit, the way her body is responding without her permission.

And then—

It hits her.

The orgasm is sudden, sharp, overwhelming. Her body clenches around his finger. She cries out, louder than she means to.

Liam grins. "There you go."

She's shaking. Her whole body is shaking.

He pulls his hand away. Kisses her. She can taste herself on his fingers when he touches her face.

"You want to keep going?" he asks.

She's terrified.

She's exhilarated.

"Yes," she says.

He reaches for his backpack. Pulls out a condom.

This is it.

This is really happening.

He takes off his jeans, his boxers. She sees him — fully hard, bigger than she expected.

He rolls on the condom. Positions himself between her legs.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says.

She nods.

He pushes inside her.

It hurts.

Not unbearable, but sharp, a stretching, a pressure that makes her gasp.

"You okay?" he asks, stopping.

"Yeah. Keep going."

He moves slowly, carefully, until he's fully inside her.

She's not a virgin anymore.

The thought is surreal.

He starts to move. Slow at first, then faster. The pain fades, replaced by something else. Not pleasure, exactly. Just... sensation. Fullness. Heat. The sound of his breathing, the smell of sweat and sex, the way the bed creaks under them.

She doesn't come again. But she doesn't care.

She's doing this.

She's actually doing this.

When he finishes, he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and lies next to her.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"That was your first time, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

He kisses her forehead. "You did great."

She doesn't know what to say to that.

They lie there in silence for a while. Then she gets up, gets dressed.

"You don't have to leave," he says.

"I know. But I want to."

He doesn't argue.

She walks back to her dorm room. It's past midnight. The streets are quiet. The city smells like rain.

When she gets to her bunk, she lies down and stares at the ceiling.

She just had sex with a stranger in Paris.

She just lost her virginity to a guy whose last name she doesn't know.

She should feel guilty. She should feel ashamed.

But she doesn't.

She feels alive.

---