Forty years had slipped by, yet his face still haunted my thoughts. I finally decided to track him down.
By sheer luck scrolling between a recipe for apple crumble and an advert for antiwrinkle cream I stumbled on a profile. Name, surname, and a photograph: silver hair, round spectacles, a grin that I recognised instantly.
I froze, halfinmotion. My heart thumped louder, as if my body remembered something my mind was too shy to name. I clicked. It was an artists page, a tiny gallery tucked away in Camdens backstreets, pictures of misty moors, ancient gateposts, a woman gazing out of a window. One canvas bore the caption, Autumn remembers more than summer.
I knew it was him. James. My James from school, the boy I loved silently throughout my Alevels and well beyond. After the exams he left for university, I stayed put.
Life took its own crooked road marriage, children, then a divorce, long stretches of quiet and routine. But that feeling never truly went out; it merely tucked itself away like a love letter in a drawer.
Before I could think twice, I typed: Im not sure you remember me, but I do. If you fancy a cuppa, Ill be in London.
He replied the same day: I remember. I always have tea after four. My address is on the site.
I booked a train, packed a small suitcase, a cosy jumper, and the unsent letter from years ago. In the carriage I watched the countryside flash by gold, russet, frosted and felt something odd, as if time were rewinding and I were eighteen again.
When the train hissed into London Paddington, I felt, for the first time in ages, that something truly important was about to happen. I didnt know what, but I wasnt about to miss it.
His studio was on a narrow side lane off Camden Market. Weathered steps, a heavy door with a little pane of glass, and above it a brass plaque that read, James M. Painting Studio. My heart gave another leap as I knocked. After a moment of silence, a familiar voice called, Open.
Inside was not what Id imagined, yet exactly what I needed: the sharp smell of turpentine, dim light filtering through a tall window, canvases propped against the walls, a mug of brushes, a halfdrunk cup of coffee. He stood at his easel, turned slowly, as if hed been waiting for me. He smiled not broadly, but quietly, with his eyes.
You havent changed a bit, he said, though that wasnt true at all. Yet there was no pretense in his tone.
You havent either, I replied.
He ushered me into an old, overstuffed armchair, poured water for tea, and we began to chat. At first about nothing trains, traffic jams, how London looks gorgeous in autumn. Then everything: the years that had passed, my life, the loss of loved ones, how wed both ended up a little solitary despite being surrounded by crowds.
The table smelled of freshly baked bread. Tea with a hint of clove steamed in our cups. Soft golden light spilled through the window. It was so quiet I could hear my own breathing.
Do you ever think of that summer? he asked suddenly.
All the time, I blurted out before I could stop myself.
For the next two days we were inseparable. We roamed Regents Park, ate fishandchips on Newington Green, laughed at jokes only those who remember the fizz of orange soda from a glass bottle and the school bells shrill could appreciate.
He never asked how long Id stayed. I never said when Id leave. It felt like a bubble fragile, hushed, beautiful, and somehow very real.
On the third morning I packed my bag and left it by the door. He handed me a cup of tea and said simply, Dont go just yet.
But I have duties, a home
He shook his head. Everything will wait there. Here here waits someone who doesnt want to lose you again.
I gazed out at the amber trees and thought, perhaps this time I should stay.
I didnt board the train. My bag stayed by the door, and I remained by the window, tea in hand, settled in his armchair, in his world. A brief wave of shame passed over me, as if Id done something reckless, but the feeling evaporated faster than it had arrived.
I lingered for another day, then another, and soon I stopped counting.
Time moved differently in his studio. I helped sort paints, wiped frames, read aloud while he sketched. Suddenly it seemed possible to live simply, lightly, without dissecting everything.
In the evenings we walked through the Old City, together yet apart, unnoticed by strangers. No one gave us a second glance, perhaps because it just seemed natural. Or maybe because who cares if were thirty or sixty?
One afternoon I found a small sketch on his desk: a figure by a window, bathed in light, captioned, Autumn that returned. I said nothing, just brushed the paper with my fingertips and smiled softly.
I dont know if this will last forever. I have no plans, no questions. All I need is that one moment someone saying, Stay and truly hearing it.
Id waited forty years for a decision. Now Im not willing to wait any longer.
