- Ari's POV -
The past few weeks had felt like cautiously stepping onto new, slightly unfamiliar ground, the earth beneath my feet shifting in subtle but significant ways.
Bea, bless her persistently loving heart, had been a steady force in her gentle but determined effort to pull me out of the self-imposed semi-isolation of my studio.
"You need to breathe air that isn't thick with turpentine and the ghosts of longing that isn't returned, dong!" she'd declared one particularly sunny afternoon, practically dragging me to a local art fair nestled in a leafy park, buzzing with lively energy and the murmur of conversations I usually instinctively avoided.
It was a sensory overload at first, the sheer number of people and the dizzying array of artwork a stark contrast to the quiet solitude I'd so carefully created within the four walls of my creative space.
But slowly, almost without me noticing, I found a strange, unexpected comfort in being surrounded by others who understood the unspoken language of creation, the silent, intense conversations between an artist's soul and the waiting surface of a canvas.
It was amidst this bustling, colorful scene that I unexpectedly met Vincent.
He was an art investor who had flown in from Makati for the fair, his presence radiating a quiet confidence and an air of genuine intellectual curiosity that drew me in like a moth to a gentle flame. He spoke with a genuine interest in the local art scene, asking insightful questions about the various styles and artists represented.
"Excuse me," a soft voice said, and I turned to see Vincent looking slightly perplexed, a printed brochure in his hand. "I seem to be having a moment of… geographical confusion. This map… is the 'Emerging Cebu Artists' exhibit in this direction?" He gestured vaguely towards a cluster of white tents.
"Actually," I replied, a small smile playing on my lips, "I was about to ask someone the exact same thing. This park layout seems a bit… abstract."
We both chuckled, a shared moment of mild disorientation breaking the ice. "Perhaps," Vincent suggested, "we are both directionally challenged and should pool our resources?"
"A wise strategy," I agreed. We approached a woman with a friendly face and an official-looking lanyard. After a brief inquiry, she pointed us towards a large tent further down the path, the sound of lively chatter and music emanating from within.
"Teamwork makes the dream work," Vincent said with a wry grin as we walked towards the tent. "I'm Vincent Dela Cruz, by the way." He extended his hand.
"Aristotle Aikawa," I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and warm. "But please, call me Ari."
"Pleasure to meet you, Ari. Are you an artist showing here today?"
"No, I'm just… appreciating the local talent," I replied, a touch of shyness creeping in.
"Ah, a fellow admirer then." We continued to talk as we browsed the exhibit, the initial awkwardness completely dissipating. We discussed the other artists' work, our impressions of the Cebuano art scene, and the challenges and joys of engaging with art. There was an easy flow to the conversation, a shared appreciation that felt refreshing.
"I'd like to stay in touch, Ari," Vincent said after a while, pulling out his phone. "Are you on Photogram?"
"I am," I replied, relieved at the suggestion. "What's your handle?"
He told me, and I quickly searched for his profile and sent a follow request. He did the same.
"Got it," he said, a small notification popping up on his screen. "I'll look forward to seeing your posts."
We exchanged phone numbers as well, the digital connections feeling like tangible links.
Over the following weeks, Vincent became a thoughtful and insightful presence in my life. He'd text occasionally, not with the demanding frequency I was used to from Migs, but with a genuine interest in how I was doing or to share an article he thought I might find interesting about the Cebuano art scene.
We had also started exploring the local art scene together, visiting several galleries in Cebu City and even taking a day trip to Bohol to see a unique exhibit featuring local sculptors working with indigenous materials.
Each visit was a quiet exploration, filled with thoughtful observations and shared appreciation. He invited me to a quiet dinner with a few other art enthusiasts he'd met during his visit, and we had a stimulating conversation about the evolving landscape of Philippine contemporary art.
One afternoon, Vincent texted, "Ari, I have some free time today. I was wondering if you knew of any other interesting exhibits or galleries we could visit?"
A wave of nervousness mixed with a flicker of pride washed over me. "Actually, Vincent," I replied hesitantly, "I have a studio here in Cebu. It's… not exactly a gallery space, more of a working chaos, but you're welcome to visit if you're interested."
He responded almost immediately, "I would be delighted, Ari. Send me the address."
A short while later, Vincent arrived at my studio. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the paint-splattered floors, the canvases leaning against the walls, and the various tools and materials scattered across my worktables. But there was also a genuine curiosity in his gaze as he began to examine the pieces in progress.
"This is… incredible, Ari," he said softly, his voice filled with a genuine awe that took me by surprise. He moved slowly among the canvases, his attention focused and intent. "The emotional intensity… it's even more palpable in person. You have a remarkable talent."
He asked insightful questions about my techniques, my inspirations, and the stories behind the colors and textures. It was the first time someone I had a budding connection with had seen my work with such genuine interest and respect.
Vincent was a steady, reliable presence, his quiet kindness a soothing balm. His consistent attentiveness, his genuine interest in my thoughts and feelings – not just about art, but about life – was a quiet but powerful affirmation. It was a stark and welcome contrast to the intermittent, often self-serving attention I'd grown so accustomed to accepting. There was a budding warmth in his company, a fragile possibility of a real, two-way connection that felt both exhilarating and undeniably terrifying after years of navigating a one-sided emotional landscape.
One particularly humid afternoon, the kind where the very air seemed to weigh you down, clinging to your skin like a damp shroud, I found myself alone in the familiar, paint-splattered chaos of my studio.
Leo had a bad migraine and Sofia had an early family dinner to attend, leaving me in the quiet company of my unfinished canvases.
Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows in golden shafts, illuminating the swirling particles of pigment and the silent ghosts of past creations that lingered in the air. The scent of drying paint, usually a comforting, almost motherly aroma, felt heavy today, inexplicably tinged with a profound sadness that settled in my chest like a lead weight.
My gaze fell upon a canvas leaning against the far wall, a piece I had started shortly after returning from Manila. It was a riot of deep blues and fiery oranges, the brushstrokes thick and urgent, almost violent in their application, mirroring the tumultuous mix of longing and fleeting intimacy from that night with Migs.
The colors seemed to swirl and collide, creating a sense of intense yearning, a hunger for a connection that felt so close, yet ultimately remained just out of reach.
The final brushstroke, a hesitant, almost ethereal touch of pale gold that seemed to hover just above the passionate blues, captured that feeling perfectly – the almost-there of his touch, the unspoken emotions that hung in the air, a brushstroke away from something real and lasting.
A sudden, visceral wave of longing for Migs washed over me, a sharp, almost physical ache that constricted my breathing.
It was a yearning for the specific, crooked curve of his easy smile, the effortless rhythm of his infectious laughter, the fleeting, almost accidental warmth of his touch – memories that had become both cherished and tormenting in their relentless repetition, replaying in the quiet theater of my mind. His image, that effortless charm coupled with his often-casual indifference to the depth of my feelings, filled the silence of the room, a stubborn phantom I couldn't seem to fully banish despite my conscious efforts to move on.
Just then, the insistent, electronic buzz of my phone sliced through the heavy stillness. It was a message from Vincent, a simple, unassuming invitation to meet for coffee at a new cafe he'd discovered, one with a rooftop terrace offering a breathtaking view of the city bathed in the golden hues of sunset.
A hesitant flicker of anticipation, fragile as a newborn flame, sparked within me, a quiet warmth that had begun to tentatively bloom in the gentle, supportive spaces he'd created.
But the lingering intensity of my long-standing feelings for Migs cast a long, persistent shadow, creating a bewildering sense of internal conflict, a feeling that bordered on profound disloyalty to a phantom who had never truly claimed me. It was irrational, I knew intellectually.
Migs had never offered anything beyond fleeting moments of casual affection, never truly acknowledged the depth of my emotions. Yet, the deep, tenacious roots of my affection, the years of unspoken devotion that had quietly shaped so much of my emotional landscape, made the prospect of a genuine, reciprocal connection with Vincent feel almost like a profound betrayal of a silent vow I had unknowingly made to myself.
Later, seated across from Vincent on the cafe's rooftop, the sprawling cityscape twinkling below like a scattered constellation of earthly stars, the internal tug-of-war felt almost palpable, a silent battle waged between the ingrained habits of my heart and the burgeoning possibilities of a different future. He spoke with genuine enthusiasm about a local sculptor whose latest work featured a fascinating interplay of light and shadow, his observations insightful and thought-provoking, then gently steered the conversation towards my own recent pieces.
"The new series feels different, Ari," he observed, his thoughtful gaze meeting mine across the small table. "There's a vibrancy, an almost joyful energy that I haven't seen in your previous work. It's compelling. What inspired this… this shift in tone?"
I hesitated, the familiar image of Migs, his easy charm and casual dismissal, flashing through my mind like a fleeting shadow.
"It's… a change of perspective, perhaps," I replied vaguely, not wanting to delve into the complex, often painful emotional landscape that continued to fuel my art, a landscape Vincent was only just beginning to explore with me.
Vincent nodded understandingly, his silence a comfortable, non-judgmental space. "It's compelling," he reiterated softly.
"It speaks of a certain… liberation." He paused, his expression softening with a gentle, genuine curiosity. "You seem a little… preoccupied tonight, Ari. Is everything alright?"
His genuine concern was disarming, a refreshing change from the often-superficial interactions I was accustomed to. I took a deep breath, the clinking of ice in my glass amplifying the slight, nervous tremor in my hand. I had to be honest, at least in part, if I was to truly allow this new connection to blossom.
"Vincent," I began, my voice betraying a slight, almost involuntary tremor, "there's something I need to tell you. There's been someone… someone I've cared deeply for, for a very long time. It's… a complicated situation. Largely unrequited. And sometimes… the deep roots of those feelings make it difficult to… to fully embrace the possibility of something new."
I avoided his steady gaze, focusing instead on the swirling patterns in my iced coffee, the condensation beading on the cool glass.
Vincent listened intently, his gaze unwavering but gentle, his silence offering a safe space for my hesitant confession.
He didn't interrupt, simply allowing me the time and space to articulate the tangled web of my past emotions. When I finally finished speaking, a long, thoughtful silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant, comforting hum of the city below. Finally, he spoke, his voice soft but resolute, carrying a weight of understanding.
"Ari," he said gently, "you can't allow yourself to remain tethered to a hope that may never materialize. Your capacity for love and connection is evident in your art, in the way you speak about the world, in the kindness you extend to others. You deserve someone who cherishes that, who truly sees the beauty you possess, both inside and out."
"I understand there's a history there, a significant emotional investment. I'm not asking you to erase it, or to rush into anything you're not ready for. I'm simply offering my friendship, and the potential for something deeper, if and when you feel you have the space for it in your heart. There's no pressure, Ari. I value getting to know you, regardless of the pace. And I deeply respect whatever boundaries you need to set for yourself." He added.
His profound understanding was a wave of unexpected relief, a gentle acknowledgment of the tangled emotions I had carried for so long, often in silence. The guilt didn't vanish entirely, but it receded, replaced by a fragile sense of hope and a burgeoning determination to navigate my emotional life with greater honesty and, perhaps most importantly, with a newfound sense of self-compassion.
"Thank you, Vincent," I managed, a genuine warmth spreading through me, chasing away some of the lingering chill of my confession. "That… means a lot. More than you know."
He offered a small, reassuring smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "So," he said, his tone lightening slightly, a gentle invitation to return to the present, "tell me more about this new series. What's the story you're trying to tell with these vibrant landscapes?"
And as I began to speak about my art, about the lush greens of the mountains and the complex emotions they evoked within me, the persistent phantom of Migs seemed to recede a little further into the background, replaced by the quiet, promising possibility of a different kind of connection, one built on mutual respect, genuine interest, and the comforting absence of expectation.
That night, the silence of my studio felt different. It wasn't the lonely, echoing silence of unfulfilled longing, but a peaceful space for introspection and a burgeoning sense of resolve.
The canvases that lined the walls seemed to hold a collective breath, waiting patiently for the next chapter to unfold. The years of unspoken feelings for Migs had formed a tight knot of longing and quiet resignation within me. It was time to finally, gently untangle it, not with the desperate hope of reciprocation, but as a final act of self-assertion, a quiet declaration of my own worth before I could truly turn the page and embrace the possibilities that lay ahead.
The unread messages from Migs on my phone felt like faded photographs, relics of a past I was finally ready to acknowledge, learn from, and then gently set aside, allowing space for a future that held a flicker of possibility untethered to the whims of someone else's inconsistent affection.