40years have slipped by, yet his face still haunts my thoughts. I finally decided to look for him.
I found him after four decades, by sheer happenstancewhile scrolling online between a Victoria sponge recipe and an advert for antiwrinkle cream. His name, his picture: silver hair, round spectacles, a grin I recognised in an instant.
My finger hovered over the mouse. My heart thumped harder, as if my body remembered something my mind dared not name. I clicked. It was an artists profile, a tiny gallery tucked away in the cobbled lanes of Yorks Shambles, photographs of his workmisty moors, ancient gateposts, a woman peering from 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 quietly throughout my Alevels and long after. After the exams he left for university, I stayed behind.
Life took us on different roadsmarriage, children, then divorce, a long quiet stretch and the same daily grind. Yet that feeling never truly faded; it simply slipped into a drawer, like an unsent letter.
Before I could think twice, I typed:
Do you remember me? I do. If you fancy a cuppa, Ill be in York.
He replied the same day:
I remember. I have tea at fouroclock every day. My address is on the site.
I booked a train ticket, packed a small satchel with a warm cardigan and that old unsent letter. Through the carriage window I watched the countryside roll pastgolden, amber, frostedfeeling time roll back, as if I were eighteen again.
When the train pulled into York, a rush of something important settled in my chest. I didnt know what, but I was determined not to miss it.
His studio sat down a narrow side street off the Shambles. Narrow stone steps, a heavy door with a small glazed panel, above it a brass plaque: J. M. Painting Studio. My pulse quickened as I knocked. After a moment of silence, a familiar voice called:
Open.
I stepped inside. The room was not what Id imagined, yet exactly as it should be: the sharp smell of turpentine, dim light filtered through a tall window, canvases propped against the walls, a jar of brushes, a mug with halfdrunk coffee. He stood at his easel, turned slowly, as if expecting me. He smilednot broadly, but quietly, with his eyes.
You havent changed at all, he said, though I knew it wasnt true. Yet there was no deceit in his tone.
You havent either, I answered.
He ushered me to an old, overstuffed armchair and set a kettle on. We talked at first about nothingtrains, traffic jams, how Yorks streets glow in autumn. Then we spoke of everything: the years that had passed, our separate lives, the loss of loved ones, the loneliness that lingered even among crowds.
The table smelled of freshly baked bread. Steam rose from mugs of tea scented with cloves. Soft golden light poured in, and the silence was so complete I could hear my own breath.
Do you ever think of that summer? he asked suddenly.
All the time, I replied before I even realised Id been asked.
For two days we were inseparable. We walked the Museum Gardens, shared pasties at the market on Newgate, laughed at jokes only those who remembered the fizz of orange soda in glass bottles and the school bells shrill could understand.
He never asked how long Id stay; I never said when Id leave. It felt like a bubblefragile, quiet, beautiful, and astonishingly real.
On the third morning I packed my bag and left it by the door. He handed me a steaming cup of tea and said simply:
Dont go just yet.
But I have responsibilitieshome, work
He shook his head.
Everything out there will wait. 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 remained by the door, and I lingered by the window, tea in hand, settled in his armchair, in his world. A brief shame fluttered through me, as if Id acted irresponsibly, but the feeling faded faster than it came.
I lingered another day, then another, and eventually stopped counting.
Time moved differently in his studio. I helped him sort pigments, dusted frames, read aloud while he sketched. I discovered that life could be simple, light, unburdened by endless analysis.
Evenings we strolled through the historic centre, together yet apart, unnoticed by strangers. Perhaps it was because it felt natural, or perhaps because no one cared whether we were thirty or sixty.
One afternoon I found a small sketch on his table: a figure by a window, bathed in light, captioned Autumn that returned. I said nothing, only brushed the paper with my fingertips and smiled softly.
I dont know if this is forever. I have no plans, no questions. That single momentsomeone saying Stay and me truly hearing itis enough.
I waited forty years for this choice. Now I refuse to wait any longer.
