A Cache of Unrequited Love Letters

Entry 1

 I didn't realize that he was my first love until I felt his breath against my cheek.

I saw him for the first time in the art museum. I was on vacation with myself. It was the summer before the last year of high school. I knew that I had to escape the life I lived in my hometown. I knew I had to forget about that life, and worry only about the where I am now. If only for the summer.

I had just arrived to Paris from London via bus. It was a sunny Sunday. I hadn't booked a hotel for the night, and I didn't know where I was going to go tomorrow. All I knew was that I had a credit card, an ATM a few blocks away, a phone blasting music into my ears, and the art museum just in front of me.

I stepped off the bus. I felt a chill as the space crowded in on me. Even though the sun was almost at its apex, few people dotted the streets. 

My feet carried me toward a crosswalk, which led directly to the art museum. When I entered, I didn't know the name of the museum, didn't know which street it was located on. All I knew was the dizzying effect of streaks of paint clinging onto me, like forgotten ghosts in the cemetery.

I forgot about everything. And that silent, blinding white of succumbing to the now was so empowering that my heart thudded so hard it hurt. I smiled.

"Why are you smiling? It's just art."

The voice of a ghost from the art caressed my ears. I turned around, almost expecting the hundreds of paintings to be the speaking to me. But instead, I was faced with the sight of a boy no older than me. His accent made my toes curl.

He looked like the paintings on the wall. Meticulously painted until everything was just right.

"No, it's not," I whispered back.

Back home, they said I was like a swan. I rarely talked, and when I did, it was short and dry. But I never needed to talk, because, as they jealously whispered, I was too beautiful. My presence was narcissistic; my body talked for itself.

He looked of European descent. His eyes were a warm hazel, like the sun. They contrasted starkly against my black eyes. His hair was curled, long, and blond. His face had splotches of paint, his freckles were the clouds that shrouded the sun.

He reminded me of a fox. His eyes enchanted me, and he held my eyes. It was the first time anyone ever did that.

"It's not just art," I said again.

"It's not?"

I shook my head. His lips had turned into smile that would haunt my dreams for the summer.

"Each to one's own," he laughed. He moved closer to me. Too close. I wish that he would go away.

Again, when I begun to feel the tingling sensation of thousands of flawless eyes on me, he started to talk again.

"I never liked art much," he told me.

I didn't look at him.

"Why are you here then?"

"I never liked art that much until I saw you."

I knew he was watching me, waiting for a reaction. I also knew that my fair skin would betray me. A blush slowly and traitorously crept onto my cheeks.

"What's your name?" He took my reaction as a sign to keep talking.

"Helen."

"Paris."

I turned to look at him. His eyes glinted like a pair of foxes, and a shudder spread throughout me. I couldn't stand his presence anymore, it made me feel isolated, only seen in his eyes. I was naked in front of him. I didn't know what his motives where. 

"Goodbye," I abruptly said. His pupils, which were dilated the entire time we were talking, suddenly shrunk from the impact of my sharp dismissal.

I hope he didn't come after me. I wanted to stop, but my feet were far too fast for the begging, maniacal laughter of the art to slowly drag me back. I couldn't look anywhere but in front, because if I looked back, I'd be trapped in his fox eyes.

If I looked back, I'd be reminded of home. If I looked back, I wouldn't be able to tell myself from a swan to a human being. And I wouldn't be able to tell him from a towering horse or a chilling and accurate depiction of Achilles.