Lovesick

The light of the smartphone screen was a cold, surgical blue against Mimi’s face. It was three in the morning, the hour when the mind turns into a traitor, and she was scrolling through a rabbit hole she had promised her therapist she would stay away from.

It was a side-by-side edit on Instagram. On the left was Kylian’s ex-girlfriend, a French actress with cheekbones that could cut glass and a wardrobe that belonged on a Parisian runway. She looked like a goddess carved from marble—unattainable, polished, and perfect. On the right was a paparazzi shot of Mimi from two days ago. She was wearing an oversized hoodie, her hair was a mess of curls caught in the wind, and she was laughing at something Kylian had said, her nose crinkling in a way she usually thought was cute but now felt ridiculous.

The caption read: *From a Ferrari to a Fiat. What was he thinking?*

Mimi turned the screen off and stared at the ceiling of her dark bedroom. She wasn't a Fiat. She was just Mimi. She was a girl who liked vintage bookstores, who made a mean hot chocolate, and who sometimes struggled to get out of bed when the gray clouds of her depression hovered too low. She was "common." That was the word the tabloids loved.

When Kylian had first approached her at a quiet charity gala where she was volunteering, she thought it was a prank. He was the golden boy of France, a global icon with the weight of a nation on his shoulders. She was just the girl who accidentally spilled champagne on his shoes. But he had laughed, wiped his own shoes, and asked for her name with a gaze so intense it made her heart stutter.

For six months, it had been a dream. He was kind, incredibly funny, and surprisingly domestic. He loved that she didn't care about his stats or his market value. He loved the way she listened to him talk about his pressures without judgment. But the dream was becoming a nightmare of comparison.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from him.

*I’m back in Paris. Landing in ten. Can I come over? I missed my favorite girl.*

Mimi felt a lump form in her throat. She looked at her reflection in the darkened window. She looked tired. She felt small—not the cute kind of small he liked to tease her about, but insignificant.

*I’m not feeling well, Ky,* she typed, her fingers trembling. *Think I caught a bug. Better if you go home and rest. You have training early.*

The reply was almost instant. *I can bring soup? I don’t mind getting sick if it’s from you.*

*No, please. I just want to sleep. Love you.*

She put the phone on "Do Not Disturb" and curled into a ball, pulling the duvet over her head. She knew she was pushing him away. She knew it was unfair. But every time she looked at him lately, she didn't see the man who loved her; she saw the man who deserved someone who looked like a movie poster, not someone who cried because a stranger on the internet called her "plain."

The next four days were a blur of avoidance. She ignored his calls, sent short, clipped texts, and made excuses about work deadlines. She stayed in her apartment, the silence echoing the hollow feeling in her chest. She felt like a glitch in his perfect life, a mistake that he hadn't realized he’d made yet. She was saving him the trouble of breaking up with her. That was the lie she told herself.

On Friday night, the doorbell rang. Mimi froze on her sofa, a bowl of cereal in her lap. She wasn't expecting anyone.

She walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Her heart dropped. Kylian was standing in the hallway, wearing a black baseball cap pulled low and a heavy coat. He looked exhausted.

Mimi opened the door just a crack. "Kylian? What are you doing here?"

He didn't wait for an invitation. He gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, pulling the cap off his head. His dark eyes searched her face, full of a mixture of worry and frustration.

"You’ve been 'sick' for five days, Mimi," he said, his voice low and raspy. "You don't answer my FaceTime. You don't let me come over. I thought you were dying, but you look... you look like you’ve just been hiding."

Mimi looked down at her mismatched socks. "I told you, I just needed some space. I’ve been in a bit of a funk."

"A funk?" He stepped closer, reaching out to tilt her chin up, but she flinched away. He froze, his hand hanging in mid-air. "Mimi, talk to me. What did I do? If I did something, just tell me so I can fix it."

"You didn't do anything!" she snapped, the sudden volume surprising both of them. Tears began to prick at her eyes. "That’s the problem. You’re perfect. You’re Kylian Mbappé. You have the whole world at your feet."

"I don't want the world," he said softly. "I want to know why my girlfriend is looking at me like I’m a stranger."

Mimi wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her resolve crumbling. "Have you seen the comments, Kylian? Have you seen what they say about us? About me?"

Kylian sighed, a long, weary sound. "I told you never to read those. They aren't real. They don't know us."

"But they’re right!" she cried, the insecurity finally spilling over. "They compare me to her, every single day. She’s a star. She’s beautiful and confident and she... she fits in your world. I’m just a girl who works in a library and gets sad when it rains. I’m not a 'power couple' half. I’m just the girl making you look bad."

Kylian stared at her for a long moment, the silence in the apartment becoming heavy. He walked over to her small dining table and pulled out a chair, sitting down and gesturing for her to do the same.

"Sit," he commanded gently.

Mimi sat, feeling like a scolded child.

"You think I want a 'power couple'?" Kylian asked, leaning forward. "You think I want to come home to someone who is worried about how we look on a red carpet? Mimi, do you know why I fell in love with you?"

Mimi shook her head, a stray tear falling onto the table.

"Because when I’m with you, I’m not a brand," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m not a number or a trophy. You’re the only person who asks me how I’m feeling before you ask me how the match went. You make me laugh until my stomach hurts over the stupidest things. You’re loyal, you’re kind, and yeah, you have bad days. I have bad days too, Mimi. The world just doesn't let me show them."

"But she was so..." Mimi started, but he cut her off.

"She was a part of my past," he said firmly. "And it was fine, but it was loud. It was always a performance. With you... it’s real. I don't think about her. I haven't thought about her in months. The only person I think about when I’m on that bus to the stadium is you."

He reached across the table and took her hands in his. His palms were warm and calloused, a grounding force against her spiraling thoughts.

"I’m sorry the internet is cruel," he whispered. "I wish I could shield you from all of it. But don't you ever think that you are 'common.' To me, you are the most extraordinary thing in this city."

Mimi looked at their joined hands. "I just feel so small sometimes. Like I’m dragging you down to my level."

"Then drag me down," Kylian said with a small, lopsided smile. "I like it down here. It’s quiet. It’s got you. I’d rather be in this little apartment with you and your 'funk' than at the fanciest gala in the world with anyone else."

Mimi let out a shaky breath, the tension that had been coiling in her chest for a week finally beginning to loosen. "You’re really cheesy, you know that?"

Kylian laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "I’m a romantic. It’s a French tradition. Now, are you going to keep hiding from me, or can I stay? I haven't had a decent hug in five days."

Mimi stood up and walked around the table. Before she could say anything, Kylian pulled her into his lap, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He smelled like expensive cologne and the cold night air, a scent that had become her favorite version of home.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on tight. "I’m sorry," she whispered into his hair. "I get into my own head and I can’t find the way out."

"I’ll always come in and find you," he promised, his voice muffled against her skin. "Just leave the light on for me next time, okay? No more 'I’m sick' texts."

Mimi nodded, feeling a sense of peace settle over her. The world outside would still be loud. The comments wouldn't stop, and her brain would likely find something else to be anxious about by next Tuesday. But looking at the man holding her—not the superstar, but the man who had driven across Paris in the middle of the night just to make sure she was okay—she realized that the only opinion that mattered was the one currently pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Okay," she said softly. "No more hiding."

Kylian pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. "Good. Because I bought two tubs of that ice cream you like—the one with the ridiculous amount of chocolate. It’s in my car. If I go get it, will you watch that terrible reality show with me?"

Mimi laughed, a real, bright sound that filled the room. "Only if you admit you actually like the show."

"Never," he grinned, standing up and heading for the door. "I do it for love, Mimi. Purely for love."

As she watched him go, Mimi realized that being "common" wasn't a curse. It was the very thing that kept him grounded, and the very thing that made her his. She wasn't a Ferrari or a Fiat; she was his sanctuary. And for the first time in a long time, that was more than enough.