Years and Years of wonder

He was beautiful. Whether or not that was the right word to use. The significance of the word beauty differs from one person to another. One thing many people do not comprehend is that beauty isn't just what can be seen by the eyes. The things that make something beautiful can be heard by your ears or felt by your soul. Beauty can be found in someone's mind or someone's heart. Beauty is a concept that could be very misleading but when I saw him when I looked at him and heard him, I knew what beauty was to me.

He was beautiful, from his mind to his heart to his face to body. When he spoke I would lose myself in his words. He had so much to say I couldn't help but get carried away in his sweet voice. He had dreams, so many dreams. I loved the passion and the heart he poured into what he did and what he knew. Everyday day I would spend with him I learned something new. He was filled with surprises.

I guess you can say I loved this man. Everything about him. There was this day we had spent together; it was a beautiful day. The wind blowing lightly gave a little breeze in the air. The sky was clear, except for that one cloud that the sun stayed hidden behind. We sat near a large body of water on the cold green grass. He had much to say that day and so did I, but I didn't bother to speak much because I wanted to listen to the words he had to say. We spoke of art and all the possible kinds. We spoke of music and paintings, writing and dancing. He wanted to be a painter and I knew one day he would be. He told me how he had been working on many projects and he felt close to making something beautiful. I knew that he would become anything he set his mind to because that was just the type of person he was. I did not doubt his talent, he was astonishing. That same night I told him I wanted to be a writer, but I still hadn't found anything to write about. He told me that I should write about the things I couldn't stop thinking about. The things that consumed my mind. I never let go of those words.

That night I was so close to telling him that I loved him. The words were so close to my lips I could taste them. I loved everything he did, and it broke me not to tell him. But I could not bring myself to do it. I knew that once those three words left my mouth, I had no more control over what would happen. Holding on to these words kept me close to him. Letting those words go meant that I might lose him, and I knew, that would be the worst heartbreak of all.

I kept those words to myself for years and years. I drove myself crazy wondering, but I was too afraid of the outcome. Then out of all the things I imagined would happen, I never thought of this, or at least, I never wanted to think of it. This man I so desired, that I loved with all my heart and soul had fallen in love. On his journey to discover himself as a painter, he discovered love. He spoke to me about this woman with such joy but all I could feel was sadness. I longed to be happy for him, but I just couldn't bring myself to be. My heart shattered in ways I didn't think it could.

He was happy with her, and that's what was important. I did not hate his new wife because that would be useless. Why hate the thing that made the one I loved happy? He had told me how his wife had been helping him a lot. He was having trouble with his paintings and they haven't been selling as well as they used to. She gave him plenty of support and didn't shy away from taking up a couple more hours at work when he wasn't doing so well. He started to run out of things to paint and it scared him very much. His mind seemed to turn blank. Painting without colors was very difficult. He would keep on painting even if he found his work to be unprepossessing. He wasn't the type to give up when faced with difficulties. Every time the man I loved had an opening to display his art I would go. I had promised him a long time ago I would always be the first to come to an art gallery when he would open one. I never broke that promise nor would I ever. I bought a painting at each art gallery. He didn't know I did this; I used a different name each time. The reasons behind my actions were as unknown to you as they were to me.

While I walked around the small room where his paintings were displayed, I found him standing in front of one analyzing it as if it was his first time seeing it. I stood next to him and stared at the painting titled: Body & Water. As my brain took in the painting that was before me, I could feel a sharp pain in my heart that caused a tear to stream down my cheek. The painting was all too familiar. The body of a young girl sitting on the green grass near a large body of water while the sunset, and the moon struggled to come out. The painting was of me.

"Remember when we talked all day and night about what we wanted to be." He said to me. His voice was so soft I almost didn't hear what he had said.

"Of course!" I replied whipping the tear from my cheek.

"Well this was my way of thanking you" He added

"Thanking me? For what?" I asked not too sure where he was getting at.

"You never lost faith in me. In my dreams. You always knew I would be a painter, even if no one comes to my galleries"

"You are so incredible. I always knew you would make it because you never give up. Maybe now you may have reached a rough patch, but people will come to your galleries, I know it"

What I had said seemed to have struck him. He stared at me for a long time until he finally decided to grab me and hold me. Him being close to me in this way was the best reward anyone can ask for. I helped him close the gallery and we decided to go out for a drink at a near restaurant. We sat down and both decided to have red wine. We talked all night about nothing and everything. He told me about his travels to Italy and France and how the art there was beautiful. He learned a lot about painting and all the history behind it. It was fascinating. He then asked me if I was still into writing and of course I was. I told him how I was writing a book. It took place in the same small village they lived in. It was about a girl who falls in love with a poet. I didn't get into too many details afraid that he would be uninterested, but I thought wrong. When I stopped talking about it, he asked me to go on. He made me smile all over again.

"Where is your wife?" I had asked him after a while of silence. He took a long sip of wine before answering my question. Something seemed wrong. If I would've known it was a sensitive subject I wouldn't have asked.

"She went back to France two days ago" He replied

The way he said those words made me realize this wasn't a good thing. I was able to see the despair in his eyes. I felt foolish for not realizing this before.

"What happened?" I asked hesitantly afraid to cross a line that I shouldn't cross.

He was always the talkative type, but when it came to personal feelings, he was more reserved. That was one of the reason's I was always so afraid to tell him about my feelings and ask him about his. He didn't answer my question straight away. He seemed to be searching for the right words to say, or was he just trying to find a way to tell me without crying?

"She wasn't happy here anymore." He replied. I could see him fighting his feelings away. I wanted to ask more, but I thought it best not to say anything until he did.

There was a long silence. Watching him struggle with what I had said hurt me so bad. I didn't know he was sad; never would I have thought him sad. His beautiful soul seemed crushed. He then took his eyes away from his glass and looked up at mine.

"She hated it here. She tried to be happy for me, but after a while, it got to her. The sadness. She missed her family back home. She wanted to be strong for me but as time went on her mind couldn't take it anymore. She told me that she felt trapped with me. That was the last thing I wanted. I never wanted to make anyone feel trapped. She said she wanted to go home, that she did not want to be with me anymore. I had to let her go." He explained to me. He couldn't hold back his emotions anymore. Tears started streaming down his face.

I was speechless. I did not know what to do nor what to say. Seeing him like this crushed me. I never hated the girl he married because she made him happy. But that was all a lie. His wife never really made him happy. How can he have been okay when she wasn't.

He was always such a beautiful man and I loved everything about him. After everything he had been through all I wanted to do was help, but I was out of options now. After years he never found love again. I still wondered whether I should tell him about my love for him, but my fear never seemed to have gone away. The beautiful man I so loved started to vanish in time. His body was no longer beautiful after contaminating his liver with alcohol. His mind was scattered, and his heart was broken. He refused to paint after the news that his ex-wife remarried surfaced. He hated the feeling of a brush and the smell of paint. Seeing him in this state hurt me more than I expected. As much as it pained me to do so, I stopped seeing him. I tried to get him to paint again but he refused. His drunken mind didn't want to know reason. Seeing him do this to himself caused me so much pain and anger I had to go. If he was going to do this to himself, I wanted no part in it.

The man I loved was no longer the beautiful man I knew. I couldn't recognize him anymore and I tried hard to forget about him, but he consumed my mind. And so, I did as he once told me long ago. To write what consumed my mind. He consumes my mind.

I still worry about him and wonder what would've been if I told him that I loved him.