The sunlight was too bright when I stepped off the train at Le Gare de Cannes. I was used to Paris–its clouds and rain were a deep grey that matched my own. The girl who’d arrived at Charles de Gaulle in September–wide-eyed, eager, full of hope–was gone. Cannes got what was left of her: a faint shadow against the train’s window, tears blurring the passing landscapes into smears of color.

I’d felt ashamed of the dream I’d failed to find there: clarity, happiness, a life worthy of photographs. I’d imagined balconies overlooking the Eiffel Tower, butter croissants and cobblestone streets. But in the “city of love and light”, I found myself more alone than ever. My only comfort came during the nights when my phone would glow with Facebook notifications — proof that someone, somewhere, noticed me. 

When the train stopped, passengers rushed forward, thrilled and eager. I was the last to step onto the platform. The station radiated wealth– women in designer clothes, luxury cars waiting behind the glass walls. Through it all, one woman stood out–Fabienne, my host mom, there to welcome me. She wore simple linen and a kind smile. I braced for another detached introduction, but her sincerity caught me off guard.

Immediately, she welcomed me with a double kiss, a hug and a small lavender sachet. “Pour toi,” she said. For you. It was such a small thing, but after months of feeling invisible, it felt like being seen.

Something loosened inside me then– just a small space, opening enough for the light to find its way in.

After that, I began to notice people again. It startled me at first, the way kindness could slip into ordinary moments: the barista slipping extra sugar into my espresso, the classmate waiting after lectures, the host brother leaving tea at my door during long nights. Small gestures, gentle and steady, began to stitch me back together.

The months quickly passed, and soon it was time to face what I dreaded most– goodbye. 

On our last night, my friends and I climbed the hill overlooking the city. Below us, the city’s lights shimmered like a constellation. We talked for hours, trying to stretch time, our laughter breaking often into tears. When someone whispered, “I’ll really miss this,” the words hung there, fragile and true.

I looked at their faces glowing in the light, and it hit me—the ache wasn’t for the city. It was for them. 

I used to think happiness was something I had to chase; that healing lived in the next city. But there, surrounded by the people who had steadily loved me back to life, I finally understood. Life isn’t about where you go; it’s about who you’re with.

When I packed my suitcase, I tucked Fabienne’s lavender sachet between my clothes. I couldn’t take the laughter or the evenings that healed me, but I could carry their scent. Even now, when I open the drawer where it rests, the faint smell of lavender reminds me of that city—the kindness that met me there, and how the sunlight that once blinded me now falls gently, familiar and kind.