April 22
Forty years have slipped by, yet his face still haunts my thoughts. I finally decided to try and find him.
I stumbled upon him by accidentbrowsing the web for an apple crumble recipe, then a cheeky antiwrinkle cream ad. His name, his photograph appeared side by side: silverthreaded hair, round spectacles, that crooked smile I recognized instantly.
I froze halfway through scrolling. My heart thudded as if my body remembered something my mind dared not name. I clicked. It was an artists profile, a modest gallery tucked away in the cobbled lanes of Oxfords Cowley Road, pictures of landscapes, 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 the days when I loved him quietly throughout sixth form and long after the exams. After the Alevels he left for university, I stayed behind.
Life took us on different tracksmarriage, children, then divorce, long stretches of silence and routine. Yet that feeling never truly died; it merely 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 Oxford.
He replied that very afternoon:
I remember. I always have tea after four. The address is on the site.
I booked a train, packed a small bag with a warm cardigan and the old unsent letter. As the carriage rattled past the golden, russet, frostkissed trees, a strange sensation washed over metime seemed to rewind, and I felt eighteen again.
I arrived at Oxford station, and for the first time in ages I sensed that something truly important was about to happen. I didnt know what, but I was determined not to miss it.
His studio lay in a side street off Cowley. Narrow, timeworn stairs led to a heavy door with a tiny glass pane, above which a brass plaque read: J. M. Painting Studio. My heart pounded as I knocked. After a heartbeat of silence, a familiar voice called, Open.
I stepped inside. The space was not what I had imagined, yet exactly as it should be: the sharp scent of turpentine, a dim hush broken by daylight streaming through a tall window, canvases propped against the walls, a jar of brushes, a mug with a halfdrunk coffee. He stood at the easel, turned slowly as if hed been waiting for me, and offered a quiet smile that reached his eyes.
You havent changed a bit, he said, though I knew that wasnt true. There was no deceit in his tone.
Neither have you, I replied.
He led me to an old, overstuffed armchair and set about making tea. We talked at first about nothingtrains, traffic jams, how Oxford turns a brilliant shade of amber in autumn. Then the conversation deepened: the years that had passed, our separate lives, the losses wed both endured, the quiet loneliness that can sit beside a crowd.
The table smelled of freshly baked bread. Steam rose from our cups, tinged with cloves. Soft golden light filtered through the window, and the room was so still I could hear my own breathing.
Do you ever think about that summer? he asked suddenly.
All the time, I answered before I could even pause.
For two days we were inseparable. We strolled through the University Parks, ate fishandchips at the New Street market, laughed over memories only those who once sipped orange soda from glass bottles and heard the school bell can truly understand.
He never asked how long Id stay; I never said when Id leave. It felt like a fragile bubbledelicate, quiet, beautiful, and astonishingly real.
On the third morning I packed my bag and left it by the door. He handed me a mug of tea and said simply, Dont go just yet.
But I have responsibilitiesmy flat, my job
He shook his head. Everything will wait. Here, someone is waiting who doesnt want to lose you again.
I gazed out at the turning trees and thought, perhaps this time it should be I who stays.
I didnt board the train. My bag remained at the door, and I sat by the window, tea in hand, in his chair, in his world. A brief shame fluttered through me, as if Id done something reckless, yet the feeling faded faster than it appeared.
I lingered another day, then another, and eventually I stopped counting.
In his studio time seemed different. I helped him sort paints, wipe frames, read aloud while he sketched. Suddenly life felt simple, light, unburdened by overanalysis.
Evenings we walked through the historic centre, surrounded by people yet apart from them. Nobody gave us strange looks; perhaps it felt natural, or perhaps age mattered little to anyone else.
One afternoon I found a small sketch on his table: a figure by a window, bathed in light. The caption read, Autumn that returned. I said nothing, merely brushed the paper with my fingertips and smiled softly.
I dont know if this will last forever. I have no plans, no questions. That single momentsomeone saying, Stayand hearing it trulyis enough for me.
I waited forty years for this decision. Now Im done waiting.
