“Where did he go?” I jumped out of the bed, clutching Papa’s shoulders as I stood in front of him.

He shook his head. “He didn’t say. I don’t think he wants to be found, Lenny. But I found this letter under your door when I walked in. Must’ve blown over to the other side.”

He reached for his pocket and passed me an envelope. I wanted to scream.

How could he let him leave?

How could he let—no, force me—to fall in love with Vaughn, then watch as he left me?

But he’d never intended Vaughn to leave, had he?

And then the inevitable dawned on me, heavy as the rocks Vaughn fought with to create art.

I was in love with him, wasn’t I?

He was psychotic, erratic, eccentric, and completely unlovable in any way…and that made me love him more. Because I knew how completely doomed he was. How much he needed it.

Our love was so much more than love. It stripped us of pride and anger and hate and insecurities. We were bare and beautiful and pure when we were together.

And now he is gone.

I clutched the letter in my fist, my hand shaking. The rest of me, too. I was losing it.

Papa stood and brought his lips to my forehead. “All those months, I gave you time to figure yourself out, Lenny. But I never went away. I was always here. Always loving, hoping, praying. It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I love you now. Then. Always.”

Len,

The first time I saw you, you were reading a book, your back pressed against the fountain. It was an impactful moment in my life. Not because you were pretty (although you were very pretty, but also very young—I don’t think we liked each other the way we do today), but because I vividly remember being appalled by the cover.

It was a fantasy book. As such, the cover was full of colors, silhouettes, and faces. The composition was all wrong. I remember looking at it and scowling. It offended me on a personal level. I think that was the moment I realized I wanted to create symmetric, beautiful things.

The moment I found out I was going to be an artist, like my mom.

Then I looked up and saw your face, and again, it wasn’t symmetric (I hope you don’t mind).

Your eyes were huge, the rest of you small, which gave you an almost infant look. Your nose was sharp, your lips thin. Your blonde hair twisted in curls that were not perfect or carefully brushed. Yet, somehow, you were more beautiful than any beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my entire life.

I would later stumble across a line from Edgar Allan Poe that made sense of it all—he said there’s no superb beauty without some sort of strangeness in the proportions.

That explained why I had to talk to you, even though it wasn’t in my nature to speak to someone when completely unprovoked. I approached you, casting a shadow over your face, blocking the sun. I remember the moment you looked up and stared at me, because once you held my gaze, I couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t a good or exciting feeling. It was terrifying. I gave you a brownie because I needed to do something. But when it came down to eating my part of it, I couldn’t do it.

I was too nervous to eat.

From that day forward, I wouldn’t eat much in front of people in general.

I always wondered where you were, if we’d meet again, and as crazy as it sounds, it always felt like we might.

You never came.

Until you did.

Until you showed up at my school senior year.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised when you didn’t move with Poppy and Edgar. I took it as a personal offense. Was I not good enough? Were you disgusted with me? By me?

You were pure, beautiful, talented, and carefully tucked in your own rich world of art, books, and music. I was torn, miles away, in a rich beach town I hated, a kid who’d seen and felt way more than he should have.

A part of me wanted our worlds to collide so I could burst yours and tear it to pieces, and another wished we’d never see each other again.

And then you came.

Defiant, infuriating, and completely out of my control.

You stirred me to savagery at a time when nothing could move me at all.

You must understand, Len, that hate is nature’s most flawless drive. It is infinitely renewable, reusable, and fuels people far better than love. Think about the number of wars that started because of hate, and the number that started because of love.

One.

There was one war in the history of the world to start upon the legs of love.

It was the Trojan War, and it was Greek mythology.

Which brings us right back to zero.

That’s the logic I worked with, and fuck, did it do the trick.

I hated you because I had to feel something for you, and the opposite of hate was out of the question. Not on the goddamn table. Falling in love with a girl who hated me, who thought I was a monster who killed jellyfish and had been involved with a middle-aged man? No, thank you. Your face alone made me feel defanged, so I had to get creative. To bite harder.

We were an unfinished business, personal and always walking the tightrope between love and hate.

But we were always something, Len.

We will always be something.

You might move on and marry someone else, have his children and get your happily ever after, but you will never be completely done with me. And that’s the small chunk of mirth I allow myself. That’s my half of the brownie. That’s my one, perfect summer moment in the South of France, watching the face of the girl I will love forever for the very first time.

Because, Lenora Astalis, this is love. It’s always been love. Love with many masquerade masks, twisted turns, and ugly truths.

I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I’ll be wishing you were there.

The internship has always been yours.

I blackmailed Harry for it at age thirteen, in the darkroom. Since your father was the deciding voice, I convinced him I’d give him something in return. You were always Alma’s favorite. She chose you, but Harry and Edgar were the majority.

And so, it feels fitting that because the internship should have gone to you, you are going to show your sculpture at Tate Modern.

It is worthy and beautiful, just like you.

I wish I were strong enough not to do what I need to do.

I wish I could get the girl.

Because, Len, you are her.

You are that girl.

My safe place.

My asymmetric happiness.

My Edgar Allan Poe poem.

You are my Smiths, and my favorite fantasy book, my brownie, and summer vacations in lush places. There will never be anyone else like you.

And that’s exactly why you deserve someone better than me.

Love,

Vaughn

The weeks leading to the exhibition had been so busy, I was sometimes surprised I didn’t forget to breathe. I certainly forgot to eat and sleep.

Papa and Poppy stuck by my side throughout, taking time off from their own schedules to assist me. It’s like they could see the hole Vaughn had left in my heart when he packed his bags and vanished. Neither of them talked about him. He just hung in the pregnant air, suspended by strings of cruel hope and tragic impossibility. Heartbreak had a taste, and it exploded in my mouth every time I tried to smile.

I worked on autopilot, putting the last touches on my assemblage piece. I’d met with curators, designers, and the exhibition coordinators. I’d signed contracts and smiled for cameras and explained my work to people who oooh-ed and ahh-ed. I’d interviewed, along with Pope and other young artists, with magazines, local newspapers, and even the BBC.