Paris, 1968. To come home from school. To burn the school. To be young, slow, fast. To spy your mother through the keyhole. To muddle the traces, rewriting history. To come out of the woodwork, to cover themselves. To fall madly in love with each other. To shout, whispering in his room. To write on the walls. To tell the truth. To forget. To caress the barricades, to shag them down. A kiss. Oui blossoms when one opens the door of his bedroom on the outer world. The first step into the other, in that moment of uncertainty when you are not entirely yourself, or at least not yet.