The door painting

I sat on the museum bench as usual. I was having one of those days when I needed to think, and that painting forced me to do so.

It was a simple work, a weathered-colored wooden door, planted on an old European-style portico.

"It's lonely, don't you think?" a nearby voice said.

I hadn't noticed the man next to me. He looked elegant, but not like those men walking past us looking at the rest of the artwork. I could see how he too was attracted to the door painting.

"A little... " I said "But in a way it is beautiful"

"Maybe... But it makes me feel abandoned, as if behind that door is a forgotten version of myself"

"Really?" I asked honestly astonished "To me it generates a sense of security..."

He looked at me with the same amazement.

"The door is worn" I continued "as if it had resisted winds and rains to protect the one inside..."

We were very different. My vision of the world was somewhat tragic, I saw beauty in pain, poetry in a cruel world. But he... He was my opposite, he could see beauty in darkness, he was an idealist, a dreamer. As if we were both on either side of that door.

As we left the museum he invited me for coffee and we continued talking. I couldn't deny that he was handsome. Tall, black-haired, elegant and well-spoken. But he wasn't my type. Yes, he was nice, but all I saw was that optimism, I saw a person incapable of seeing reality, contradicting everything I said with a cheerful attitude. It bothered me. But at the same time, it intrigued me.

We continued talking, getting to know each other little by little while I waited for the moment when he would run away, almost as a challenge. How long would he hold out?

I wasn't used to my nihilistic spirit not infecting the positivity of those around me. But he seemed immune and as time passed, his presence became more pleasant, more enjoyable.

"Are you passionate about the universe?" he asked, looking at my astronomy books.

I put the book I was reading on my lap to look at him.

"Yes, indeed. It comforts me to know that there is more than this" I answered, but I immediately regretted it "It's not that I'm bored to be with you..." I clarified "But, problems take on another perspective when you decide to look up, towards the stars."

"I understand..." he said with a slight smile, always so understanding "It seemed to be your thing. It's strange, but ever since I saw you at the museum. I knew you didn't belong here..."

His sentence left me a bit puzzled, but I didn't ask. I wasn't surprised that he was a little crazy, after all, he was with me.

Time continued to pass, and soon I found myself walking to the museum by his side, holding hands. At what point did it happen? I'm not sure, but that pleasant feeling of being with him was turning into something else. Maybe, maybe I loved him?

I had never met someone like him, so intriguing and yet so simple thinking. He enjoyed the moment, he enjoyed life, but he was able to see all aspects of it with a calmness that was almost contagious. I wanted to be like that.

We reached the door painting and sat there like the first day, only this time... the door was ajar.

I looked at him quizzically, confused, only to be met with that sincere smile that told me everything would be okay.

I didn't understand it, but his calmness invited me to look at it again. It was the same painting, the same strokes, the same oil brushstrokes. But I was different, and I had never noticed that the door had always been ajar.

The world had not changed, I had.