These memories refuse to let her fade. My mind is stubbornly anchored to her presence, and my heart clings to her as though it might drift away if it ever let go.
I often find myself lost in daydreams of the life we could have shared. I picture introducing her to my friends, their smiles and support as we exchanged vows. In my dreams, we'd awaken in each other's arms every morning, each day a testament to how deeply I cared for her. Michael would stand proudly by my side as my best man, and Hayat, radiant in her flowing gown, would be a beautiful bridesmaid. Her father would walk her down the aisle with pride, while my own father would bless our union with a tender touch. The moment I kissed her as my wife would be the pinnacle of my existence. I'd cook her breakfast each day, surprise her with flowers, and whisk her away on spontaneous dates. We'd pray together, and every day, I would find myself falling deeper into the embrace of her love.
If only I could break free from this suffocating loneliness. I'd defy any rule, take any risk, even trade my life just to bring her back. I would switch places with her without a second thought. If I had known she was leaving, I would have moved heaven and earth to keep her here. Nothing compares to the anguish of knowing she's truly gone.
My artwork, a piece of my soul etched into every brushstroke, was finally revealed. The canvas, once a mere reflection of my love for Ayah, now stood as a testament to her beauty.
She was captured in all her splendor: her chestnut hair shimmering like fire under the sun, her eyes twinkling with the light of distant stars, and her enchanting smile capable of melting even the iciest hearts. She held an iris delicately, breathing in its sweet fragrance with a graceful, Grecian nose. Her gaze, intense and entrancing, seemed to lock onto me as if she were reaching out from another realm. In the painting, she sat amidst a vast field of irises, their vibrant colors surrounding her like a sea of dreams. I imagined her dress as woven from the purest pearls, catching every glint of light. There she was, laughing, her joy captured in the vibrant colors and intricate details—before she faded away once more.
No matter how hard I searched the night sky, none of the stars shone as brightly as she did. I still hold on to her memory, clutching it desperately. She was like a drug I never intended to become addicted to, yet I am. I can laugh and smile around others, but with her, my laughter was a melody of pure love that made my heart flutter. Couldn't she have stayed just a little longer?
I find myself falling in love with her anew. Her absence has left bruises that have healed over time, but the scars remain. And still, she smiles in my memory.
As the curtain lifted on my painting, the exhibition hall erupted into life. My father gave me a distant smile, his lips forming the words, "Well done," while Hayat and her father-in-law wiped away tears. Michael, standing among the crowd, nodded with astonished approval.
"Who was Ayah Ferdous?" some might ask.
"Why did Alex Ardel take his own life?"
These are the questions people might seek answers to.
Why couldn't she have stayed a little longer? I never had the chance to say goodbye. Losing Ayah shattered my soul. Losing Alex had already fractured my mind, but losing her destroyed my heart. I became a broken man, crying out in silence to a world that remained indifferent. I tried to ignore the reality of her absence, but the certainty that I would never again touch her, never again see my brother's shadow—it was crushing. You can't truly understand this kind of pain unless you experience it yourself.
I drifted into a daydream, so absorbed that the reporter had to repeat his question twice before I realized he was speaking to me.
"Who is the person in your painting?" he asked, his tone tinged with irritation.
"Ayah Ferdous," I replied softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
"And where exactly is the location depicted in the painting?" he pressed, clearly seeking more detail.
"We never visited a place like that," I said, my voice heavy with longing. "It's a place we dreamed about. Before we could ever go there, she was already gone."
I had so much more to say, but how could I capture her essence in just a few words?
The audience, seated in the center of the room, watched intently, while reporters sat in the back, impatiently waiting their turn. Michael and one of my sponsors fielded questions from the media. I had prepared for this moment all my life, but no question had ever made me falter—until now. The room was as pristine as fresh snow, the walls adorned with the works of various artists who had once stood where I now stood. Marble vases filled with Hogan cherries stood elegantly on tables, and the buzz of cameras and scribbling pens created a backdrop of white noise.
A reporter stepped forward, microphone in hand, her voice slicing through the din. "Mr. Ardel, why were you absent from the public eye for seven years while your father made frequent appearances?"
The question pierced my heart. How could anyone expect me to be whole after losing everything? I was ensnared in a loop of memories, haunted by a darkness that followed me relentlessly. I yearned for every part of her—her presence, her soul, her flaws, her tears, her smile—*all of her*. I wanted to keep her locked away from the world so that no one could take her from me. And if they did, I'd ensure they would regret it.
"I needed time to organize my thoughts," I replied, my voice cracking. "I was deeply involved in my art career, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue.""Seven years seems excessive, don't you think?" she persisted. "Is there anything else you'd like to add?"
"It really depends on the person," I said, my patience wearing thin. "Some people can sort through their thoughts quickly, but for others, like me, it takes years. There was no other reason for my absence."
"Was it because of Alex's death?"
Before I could respond, Michael interjected. "Two questions per reporter, please. Let's move on to the next."
The reporter and many others looked disappointed. So many faces yearned for answers, but the constraints of time cut their inquiries short.
After fielding countless questions, I was finally free. I stood by the window, cradling a cup of coffee, staring out at the clear night sky. Despite all that I had achieved that evening, a hollow emptiness remained where she should have been. The moon loomed large, lonely without its constellation of stars. Like the moon, I felt incomplete. New York was alive with brilliance, brighter than the night sky, but I was too weary to bear the weight of the scars left by Alex and Ayah.
I felt pitiful—trapped in the past. But when a heart falls deeply in love, it remembers that person until its final beat.
The ring of my phone broke the silence. It was surprising to see my father's name on the screen, as we hadn't spoken directly in years. Most messages from Arthur Ardel came through Michael or the company executives.
"Dad," I answered, my voice tinged with surprise.
On the other end, I heard Mr. Ferdous's chuckle.
"Why did you call?" I asked, trying to mask my exhaustion.
"I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done," he said, his voice warm. "Will you see her tomorrow?"
"Hmmm."
"Expect a guest tomorrow," he added.
I groaned inwardly. I was already drained from the day's events. The last thing I wanted was to entertain a guest.
"I refuse," I said, my tone resolute.
"It's already been arranged. You can't say no," his voice was calm yet insistent.
"Why bother calling if it was already settled?" I asked, frustration creeping in.
"Just to let you know," he said, his pride evident.
What a day. I might just run away rather than face another guest after everything that happened tonight.
I glanced at the book on my nightstand, *My Hands Are Soiled with Red*. It was a story about a man who killed for the sake of his lover. To love someone so deeply that you'd commit murder—such love requires a special kind of madness.
I admired the meticulous way the character pursued his dark obsession.
If I were in his shoes, would I have done the same? Who knows? If I did, I'd ensure no trace was left behind, not even a body. The author's craft fascinated me.
I can have anything I ask for, yet here I am, yearning for love—something I cannot command.
"Snowflake, please, come back," I whispered into the empty room, my voice barely breathing. "Please."