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Grey Skies & Goodbye

London has been… educational. I stitched people up in the ER, learned way too much about mysterious zombie viruses, and collected a whole bouquet of harmless flirts between rain showers. The people? Adorable. The food? A crime with gravy.

Everyone here seems permanently tuned to “slightly worried”. Even the flirting feels like an organized sport: polite, careful, never without an escape route (and an umbrella). Sweet, but my heartbeat is somewhere else.

Every time I step out of a night shift and the sky is the same colour as the Thames, I hear my maman Franny laughing in my head, asking what I’m still doing on this soggy island. Paris was her city, her great love. It’s supposed to be my homecoming.

So here’s the next experiment: one suitcase, one stethoscope, one playlist (Talking Heads, obviously) and a ticket heading towards the city of cafés, cobblestones and chaos. I’ll figure out what it means to be a real Parisienne on the way – between late shifts, cheap wine, macarons and questionable decisions.

If no one wants to run away with me, fine. I’ll board that train alone, humming “Wild Wild Life”, and let Paris decide who Easy Noé is meant to be.