Chapter Text
“Memory doesn’t hurt.
It is not supposed to hurt.
Unless it is the memory of something far gone—something you do not have anymore.”
-Hélène Khaïr
The house was already awake when Hélène Khaïr opened her eyes.
Her father’s voice came before the light fully did.
“Did you have your morning prayers, Hélène?”
Not good morning. Not how did you sleep.
Just prayers.
As if God kept attendance.
As if absence was recorded.
“Yes, I did, Father,” she said.
A lie would not hurt anyone.
She kissed her mother’s cheek on the way out. Her mother’s hands lingered for half a second too long, as if trying to say something that never reached language.
Outside, Montreal was still soft with snow. The air looked like it had not decided whether to forgive winter yet.
Camille Moreau was already outside the McGill university when Hélène arrived, arms crossed dramatically against the cold.
And of course, she was not alone.
Thomas Girard stood slightly too close beside her, looking guilty in the way boys always did when they thought they were being discreet.
Hélène stopped a few steps away and leaned against a pole.
“Am I interrupting something important?” she asked.
Camille jumped. “Hélène!”
Thomas turned bright red.
Hélène tilted her head. “Because if I am, I can come back later. I’d hate to witness the creation of a Montreal population crisis in front of the university.”
“Oh my God,” Camille groaned, hiding her face.
“You’re evil,” Thomas muttered, but he was smiling.
Hélène grinned. “Only observationally.”
Camille looped her arm through hers as they started walking.
Camille was studying English Literature, but she was also taking a minor in Education, because she said she “liked the idea of surviving society with structure.”
Hélène, who studied French Literature hated the idea of taking extra classes, so she preferred sticking with her major only.
Thomas studied Business, which he insisted was “not boring, just misunderstood.”
They talked—lightly, as students do: cancelled lectures, professors who hated joy and upcoming assignments that already felt like a betrayal.
Then Camille sighed.
“My first class is cancelled.”
Hélène blinked. “That’s unfair. Mine probably still exists out of spite.”
And then—
She froze slightly.
“I’m late.”
Camille raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Literature seminar”
Thomas laughed. “I hate to be in your place.”
Camille pinched his arm.
Hélène was already backing away.
“Haha, funny.” she said quickly.
Camille called after her, teasing: “Don’t fall in love with the professor!”
“I’ll try not to!” Hélène shouted back, already running.
She ran.
The snow made everything slightly unreliable—footsteps, balance, time.
Her cappuccino was warm in her hand, dangerously close to spilling already.
She turned a corner too fast.
And collided.
Hard.
The cup left her hand before she even understood what had happened.
Coffee arced through the cold air—
—and landed.
On white fabric.
Silence snapped into place.
Hélène fell back onto the ground, stunned, breath knocked loose.
She looked up.
A tall woman stood above her.
Black hair—long, slightly wavy, controlled even in chaos.
A white shirt now stained brown at the front.
A dark coat half open.
A posture that did not move even when things went wrong.
Her face was composed in a way that felt almost unnatural.
Margaret Shaw.
Hélène did not know the name yet.
She only knew the feeling:
like she had interrupted something she was not supposed to see.
“I—” Hélène started immediately, scrambling up. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking, I didn’t—”
She couldn’t stop.
Words kept coming out like they were trying to fix what had already happened.
The woman took a slow breath.
Measured.
Controlled.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
A pause.
Then, colder:
“Just leave.”
No anger.
Worse.
Finality.
Like a door closing without sound.
Hélène stopped speaking mid-sentence.
Something in her chest tightened—confused, unfamiliar.
“I—sorry,” she whispered again, smaller now.
But the woman had already turned slightly away, as if the moment had already been filed away somewhere unimportant.
Hélène stood there for a second longer than she should have.
Then she left.
She made it to class late.
Sat down.
Opened her notebook.
Wrote nothing.
Because for reasons she could not explain yet—
she could still feel the shape of that voice.
Like cold metal against skin.
The lecture ended late.
Students spilled out of the building in uneven waves — coats half-buttoned, notebooks slammed shut too quickly, laughter echoing through the cold corridors.
Hélène stepped outside with Camille already complaining beside her.
“I swear that professor enjoys watching us suffer,” Camille said, pulling her scarf tighter.
“You chose Literature,” Hélène replied. “Suffering is basically a course requirement.”
Camille laughed. “True. Romantic suffering, at least.”
They turned the corner together—
—and that was when they saw her.
Maya Harel was leaning too close to a boy Hélène vaguely recognized from campus art spaces. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her voice lowered into something almost theatrical.
Then, suddenly, she stumbled backward directly into Hélène.
“Oh—oh Lord, she pushed me!”
Hélène blinked. “I didn’t even touch you.”
Maya clutched her arm dramatically. “Now you’re lying, James, honey. I think my leg is broken. Can you help me? Ouch—ouch, I’m dying.”
The boy — James — looked deeply uncertain whether he was witnessing a performance or a medical emergency.
Maya sighed loudly and allowed herself to be guided away, still leaning into the drama of it all.
Once they were gone, Hélène exhaled.
“I swear she could make good money as a prostitute,” she muttered.
Camille snorted. “How do you know she isn’t already?”
They both laughed.
From a few steps away, Julien Charest— Maya's friend—watched them with narrowed eyes, holding a small bag of ice as if he had been summoned specifically for chaos. He clicked his tongue softly.
“Why is he not with any girl yet?” Hélène asked, watching him leave.
Camille tilted her head. “I’d bet he’s gay. That's why he always hangs around gym guys.”
“You think so?”
“I don’t think. I observe.”
Hélène laughed. “You’re always observing people like it’s a sport.”
“And you’re always pretending it’s not interesting.”
A pause.
Then Hélène, casually:
“What was the name of that girl that i bumpedto? Margaret something.”
Camille made a face. “Margaret Shaw. She’s a physics major. Not your favorite type. Numbers. Equations. Emotional silence.”
Hélène raised an eyebrow. “You hate her already?”
“I don’t hate her. I just don’t trust people who think feelings are optional.”
That made Hélène quiet for half a second longer than usual.
“…Tell me more,” she said.
Camille shrugged. “That’s all I know. She’s intense. Quiet. Smart in a way that makes people feel stupid.”
Hélène looked away.
For no reason she could name.
The house was louder than the street.
Her younger brother was being scolded again — something about forgotten morning prayers, something about disrespect, something that always sounded bigger than it was.
Her father’s voice carried through the hallway like a rule being enforced.
Hélène slipped her shoes off quietly.
At the table, everything was already arranged.
Food. Silence. Expectation.
They prayed before eating.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive …” her father said, voice firm.
And Hélène followed, because it was easier than explaining the distance she had begun to feel between belief and obedience.
Her father set down his spoon.
“You should start thinking about marriage,” he said calmly, as if discussing weather.
Hélène blinked. “I am in university.”
“Yes,” he replied. “After.”
The word landed heavier than it should have.
After.
As if everything she was becoming would eventually need to be corrected.
She nodded anyway.
Because nodding was easier than resisting something that had already decided itself.
Years later, Hélène would forget entire conversations.
She would forget exam grades, bus routes, half the faces from university.
But she would remember this with humiliating clarity:
the snow melting slowly in Margaret Shaw’s dark hair,
and the terrible feeling — sudden and absolute —
that her life had just divided itself into a before and an after.
And Margaret, She would close her eyes in bed sometimes, long after everything had changed.
And think, not as a conclusion, but as something unfinished:
“Many people bump into you in a lifetime.
But once in a while, someone turns a simple collision into something that tightens your chest —
and makes you smile before you understand why.”