Beginning of an End

"We Were Almost a Story"

She came to me in my dreams last night. Her presence was ethereal, almost like a ghost, drifting towards me. Desperate, I called out to her, "Free me from this pain, take me with you." But she didn't respond. My eyes opened to the stark reality of my surroundings—the cold white ceiling looming above me, its sterile silence broken only by my laboured breathing. I could feel sweat drenching my body, though the chill of winter wrapped around the city outside. I turned my head slowly, gazing out the window, where the streets of New York lay blanketed in snow. There was a quiet beauty to it, a cruel contrast to the turmoil inside me. In moments like this, winter seemed to beckon, whispering promises of rest, of an end. I stood there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, staring at the lifeless world beyond the glass, wondering if I could ever truly live again. I followed her voice in my head, doing everything she once told me, everything except taking that final step into oblivion.

That day was a blur, but certain memories pierced through like shards of glass: Michael's frantic shouting, the blaring sirens of the ambulance, and the rare expression of fear on my father's face. It was an emotion I had never associated with him before. This was a man who had not shed a single tear when Alex, his eldest son, took his own life. Not even when his wife, Serena Jewels, left him for another man.

Arthur Ardel was known throughout New York as a virtuoso who had reached the pinnacle of success. His name was emblazoned across glossy magazine covers, his music filled the air in every store and café, and his face was plastered on posters all over the city. To everyone else, he was a legend, a master of his craft, an icon. But to me, he was nothing more than a tyrant, a man who had forced me to live a life I never wanted. He pushed me into a role I despised, trying to mould me into Alex's image, as though I could ever take his place. My resentment grew like a cancer, eating away at me from the inside. I hated Alex for leaving, for abandoning me, for dumping the weight of his legacy on my shoulders. But most of all, I hated my father, the man who seemed to see me as nothing more than a replacement for his fallen son.

The weight of it all crushed me. It felt like the entire world was against me like I was being hunted by shadows I couldn't escape. Strangers would stop us on the street, whispering behind our backs, "What a tragedy, his brother killed himself." People we'd never met before suddenly had opinions about our lives. They'd say things like, "With all that wealth, how could something like this happen?" As if money could buy back the dead as if riches could undo the loss of life. It made me sick. I thought about ending it all more times than I can count, but every time, fear held me back. The fear of pain, of what lay on the other side. And so, I cried myself to sleep, night after night, drowning in a sea of grief—until I met her.

"Dread walks beside hope; hope walks alongside fear." That's what she told me the first time I called her "hope." It seemed cryptic at the time, a puzzle I couldn't quite understand. I didn't know then that she was right—how hope and fear were like twins, inseparable, walking hand in hand through the shadows of life.

My eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, not from lack of sleep but from the constant stream of tears I could never hold back. Every time I thought of them—Alex, my mother, her—I wept. And it was in that half-waking, half-dreaming state that I opened my eyes to see Michael standing in my doorway. His face was etched with concern, his brow furrowed. I blinked a few times, disoriented, trying to understand why he was there. Seven in the morning—what could he possibly want?

Michael never came unannounced, not without a reason. That's how I knew something was off. "What do you want?" I asked, my voice thick with fatigue. His eyes darted around my apartment, scanning for anything that might give him a reason to worry—anything sharp, anything dangerous.

I sighed. "Relax, Michael," I muttered, "I haven't tried anything since I converted." My voice was flat, emotionless as if even that admission meant nothing to me anymore. His face softened slightly, though the concern never fully left his eyes.

Francis Morais, Michael's father, was one of New York's most talented and renowned architects, but to me, Michael was more than the son of a famous man. He had been Alex's closest friend since childhood. They had shared everything—secrets, laughter, dreams. Michael was like a brother to me, too, and when Alex brought him into our lives, it felt like he had always belonged. The three of us would spend hours playing video games, immersing ourselves in fantasy worlds where pain didn't exist, where life was simple.

Michael had always admired Alex and always looked up to him. I still remember the excitement in his voice when he'd say, "When we grow up, I'll work for Alex. We'll be unstoppable." None of us knew then that not all dreams come true. After Alex died, Michael started pulling away, visiting less and less. I thought maybe he needed space and time to heal. It wasn't until later that I found out he had started working for my father's company.

Even though he distanced himself, Michael never stopped caring. He treated me like a younger brother, always looking out for me, always there when I needed him. He was there the night I tried to kill myself. He was the one who found me. I often wondered if Alex and my mother were up there somewhere, watching over me, just like Michael was down here. Sometimes, I'd stare up at the night sky, searching for them among the stars, hoping they could see me, hoping they could hear my cries. I wanted to believe that they were scolding me for not being able to move on.

The days were suffocating, and the nights were unbearably cold. People told me to keep going, to push through the pain, but they didn't understand how hard that was. I tried—I tried so hard. But when I failed, I screamed. The memories of those I lost were chains around my heart, binding me to a past I could never escape. Their faces were fading from my mind, slipping away like sand through my fingers. I was terrified that one day I wouldn't be able to remember them at all.

How do you mourn someone if you can no longer picture their face?

I wept for them, over and over, each tear like a knife to my soul. I destroyed anything that reminded me of them. I shattered objects in my grief, trying to release the anger that simmered beneath the surface. I hated them for leaving me. I hated God for taking them. I hated the world for moving on without me.

The day I first tried to take my life was terrifying. My hands trembled as I held the knife, cold and sharp against my skin. But I was determined. What was the point of living when everyone I loved had abandoned me? After Alex's death, my father vanished. He acted as if I didn't exist, as if I wasn't his son. For three months, I sat at the dinner table alone, the servants bringing me food, waiting for him to come back. He never did. Eventually, I convinced myself that he had died too, that he had left me just like the others.

I wanted him gone. I wanted him to disappear forever.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't hear Michael speaking. His hand shook my shoulder, pulling me out of the abyss.

"Aubrey, you're zoning out again," he said, his voice filled with concern. His eyes searched mine, looking for some sign of life, some spark.

The past never truly left me.

"What did you say?" I asked, shaking my head as if to clear it. Michael sighed, repeating himself with the patience of someone who had done this far too many times.

"The show starts at 11 a.m. You need to finalize which paintings will be displayed by 9," he explained. "You'll have an hour to yourself before the interviews begin." He squeezed my shoulder gently, offering what little comfort he could. "This exhibition is your chance, Aubrey. Your chance to be free. To finally show the world what's inside you. It's not your father's music this time—it's your art. This is your moment."

I nodded, though his words felt heavy, almost suffocating. This exhibition was supposed to be my salvation, my way out of the endless cycle of grief and pain. Ayah had fought for this, for me. She should have been here, standing beside me, sharing this moment.

"I miss you, Ayah Ferdous," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

The moment had come. The morning sun poured through the wide glass windows of my penthouse, casting a warm, golden light over the snow-covered streets below. From the 30th floor, New York stretched out before me, the city glittering under a blanket of white. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to jump, to fall into the snow, to feel its soft embrace.

The trees below, their branches stripped bare by winter, stood like skeletons against the sky. They had lost everything, just like me.

On the day we held hands, we were so close that I could feel her heartbeat in sync with mine. The world seemed to disappear as we stood together, and I could still make out the hill where we had once watched fireworks explode across the night sky. Her gaze locked with mine, and in that moment, I felt like the universe had aligned just for us. I silently vowed to God that I would never let this woman go. She was mine, and she always would be. Every time I saw her standing in front of me, I would say, "There you are," as though it were the first time, every time.

As I delved deeper into our memories, I felt intoxicated by the overwhelming emotion they stirred in me. These days have been terrifying. The time I spend thinking about her grows with every passing day. I can't help but wonder—is there a sense of loneliness up there where she is? Today, I was going to tell the world about our love story. I would present her to the world, not just as a lover, but as a proud husband. My sweltering nights, once haunted by sorrow, had been replaced with dreams of the places I imagined we might see together. The entire world would hear about her, about us. As Ayah once said, our narrative would be the fairytale everyone dreams of, yet fears to pursue.

We had so many destinations we wanted to visit, from the bustling streets of New York to the quiet deserts of her homeland in Saudi Arabia. Our promises to each other were deeply etched in our hearts. We were two worlds apart—no, two worlds intertwined by fate. Our love was nurtured by the words we shared, the memories we created, the laughter we exchanged, and the hardships we endured. Time and fate were always against us, but never once did I regret loving her.

The cold bite of winter hit me as Michael spoke, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Aubrey, we have to leave," he announced. I double-checked myself in the mirror, taking in the sight of my red coat and straightening the black collar of my shirt. My hair was slicked back, and I wore a mixture of scarlet and black, the colours blending perfectly. Michael stood beside me, holding a stack of papers, his usual black suit immaculately pressed.

My unease grew as we got closer to our destination. The journey felt surreal as if time itself had blurred. It seemed like just yesterday that Ayah was fighting my father, insisting that I should be allowed to paint again. Alex had been the one with a passion for music, for the violin. But when Alex was gone, my father tried to mould me into his replacement. Suddenly, everything began to make sense again. Huge self-portraits hung around us, crowds gathered in anticipation of seeing my first works of art, and eager reporters prepared their stories about the long-lost Aubrey Ardel, making his triumphant return.

I couldn't help but laugh when I noticed a few images of my brother scattered throughout the city. Instead of feeling sadness or anger, I smiled as if Alex were right there with me, silently rooting for my success. Michael looked perplexed by my sudden outburst of laughter, but I just smiled wider. Today was the day when my paintings would connect the world with the people I loved. Especially a beautiful soul who left me on the first day of snow, seven years ago.

The exhibition hall was packed. I could hardly believe how many people had come to see my art. In the past, when I held the violin, playing for thousands of spectators—some of whom had travelled from other countries just to watch me—my heart had always felt hollow. No matter how many people cheered, I felt nothing. Whether the melody was joyous or sorrowful, I remained numb. It was as if I had left all my emotions in a place I could no longer reach.

When I played, the music echoed in my ears, but it never reached my soul. Every note felt off, and no matter how well I performed, nothing resonated with what was inside me. Yet, every time I finished, thunderous applause filled the hall as if I had created another masterpiece. On rare occasions, I would find myself crying during a performance, but it wasn't because of the music. It was because I felt trapped. I see now how pathetic that was. People often say that the most captivating part of my concerts was when I became so immersed in the music that I allowed my emotions to pour out. They thought I felt every note deeply, but I was merely lost in my emptiness.

I still vividly remember my final performance. I told the audience it would be my last and introduced Ayah as the start of a new chapter in my life. Cameras flashed, capturing every moment as I stood there, not just as a musician but as a man in love. I had found both the person and the passion I wanted to dedicate myself to. I chuckled, feeling confident that soon we would be together—no more hiding, no more pretending.

We stood there, smiling at each other, our eyes locked in a silent conversation as if reassuring one another that everything would be alright. Our love had bloomed in the harshest of winters, and for a time, it seemed unstoppable. But then, a storm came—stronger than either of us had anticipated—and it tore through the garden of our love, causing the flower to wilt and fall.

Now, as I stand here, on the verge of showing the world the paintings that Ayah fought so hard for me to create, I feel both pride and sorrow. Today, I'll share our story, a love that transcended time, distance, and loss. She may be gone, but through these paintings, her memory will live on forever.