Today, was like every other day, the French markets were littered with tourists coming in from everywhere. Americans, Chinese, Indian, African, all packed into the same place. I used to be one of them. But now, I am French, I like to think I belong here. I am not longer that Asian-American girl from New England. When I left America that autumn day, all my troubles fell away.
The white trench I was wearing would be dirty by the end of today, splattered with little spots of mud and water. The sky was painted with the soft colors of cotton candy and the cobblestone streets were wet from last night’s rain fall. The markets were outdoors and the air here was always fragranced with sweet scents of fruits. I walked up to my favorite stand.
“Bonjour! Mademoiselle,” Lambert greeted with a wide grin. He was a short, rotund man who always seemed to be happy. He handed me my regular basket of fruits and vegetables. I thanked him and left the stand. The stream of tourists seemed never ending. I began to push through them. I got some elbows nudged into my sides and some feet pushed on my shoes, typical. But when I had almost reached the sidewalk, I knocked into a someone. My perfect little apples fell out of my basket like pearls. I was going to make apple pie with those! I thought. The man quickly apologized in German and bent down to help me pick up my apples. He gently placed each apple into my basket and put his hand on my elbows to help me up as well.
I lifted my head to face him and everything hit me like a wave.
I was always a good girl. A girl who had to have everything planned out, who had to clearly see the path ahead. I went to private school until I was thirteen and switch to a pre-law school. I played three different instruments and sang in church every Sunday. I was happy with my life. Well, I was happy, until Mark. It was my second year of Law School when I met him. A transfer student from Germany in my psychology class. He caught my eyes as soon as I walked into that classroom. The room seemed to disappear and all I could see were his eyes. His warm brown eyes that seemed so inviting. He must have felt a connection too because he walked over to me immediately.
“How do you do? My name is Mark,” he greeted. This was the man who changed my life, for better or for worse, I still don’t know. We had only been together for six months when he proposed to me. I didn’t know what to think. This is it. What if I made the wrong decision? Was I ready to marry him? Yes or no? Yes or no yes or no yes or no.... Instead with dealing with my life, I listened to Robert Frost. And “I took the one less travelled by.” I ran. That night, I left for France. I ran from Mark, from my family, from everything I have ever loved and cherished. This wasn’t the me I knew. The me I knew would have planned and thought through everything. But this time, I didn’t think and it was the best and worst thing.
Here I am again. Faced with the problem that caused me to throw away everything.
“Elaina,” Mark whispered as if the name itself was poisonous. I was speechless, throat tight, and my heart pounding felt like being hit by a boulder over and over again. I was overcame by the strongest of emotions. There was still time to fix mistakes, maybe plans can change. Maybe we can start over.
   “Can we try again?” I asked with uncertainty. Mark’s face crumpled with tears in his eyes. He shook my hand and he left as I had left him. I felt my heart breaking as I clutched my stomach and knelt down on the cold wet street.