Kids in love

Aylin Louvel

by Aylin Louvel

Story

“Some people care too much. I think it’s called love.” — A.A. Milne

Love is fragile and profound. Akin to a solitary star in the night sky—distant, yet radiating with luminosity. It carries a paradoxical nature, a fusion of warmth and isolation, reminiscent of a dark paradise. For Achilles love was a mystery that potentially held the keys to understanding the complexities of the world. The sun was shining that day, the ground was still frozen, and the leftover snow stained his shoes. His scarf was wound tightly around his neck, perhaps a bit too snugly, causing a slight discomfort as the pressure and warmth pressed against his throat. Achilles found himself in need of respite from his studies and the incessant curiosity that drove him to uncover who Khali Drewitt was. He had taken the initiative to reach out to the publisher, penning letters in the hope that they might connect him with Drewitt. The weight of his classes was also beginning to take its toll. He found himself succumbing to the undertow of perfectionism and the competitive atmosphere that permeated the art school. His latest painting never even graced the eyes of his instructors, for he had torn it apart and discarded the remnants in frustration. He cried that day. He cried until he felt nauseous. Depression was beginning to engulf him, and he hated the feeling. The gentle melody of ‘Back to the Old House’ by The Smiths played through his headphones as he navigated through a crowd of people, some standing to the left and others to the right, all straining to capture images of the paintings adorning the walls. Achilles returned to the National Gallery with a specific exhibit in mind. As he entered it, the environment transformed – the floors and walls were adorned with Gogh’s paintings, their images projected onto the surfaces, some even coming to life with subtle animations. He stood before a colossal wall adorned with the iconic “Starry Night,” its colours swirling and enveloping him, pulling him further into Vincent van Gogh’s creative realm. Glancing around, his attention halted as he spotted someone he instantly recognised. His stranger. Memories of their first meeting within this very building, in front of Salvos’ painting, came rushing back to him. Achilles couldn’t recall her name, yet his feet instinctively led him towards her. “Didn’t expect to see you again, stranger,” he called out above the cacophony of voices in the room. She turned, her eyes resembling a painter’s palette left to dry, preserving the vibrant colours. “Could say the same about you, stranger,” she replied. Achilles found himself trailing after her as she navigated through the exhibit. He snapped back to reality when he realised he was lying next to her on the ground, both of them gazing at the artwork before them. She spoke passionately, sharing facts about the artworks surrounding them, and he hung on every word she said. “You talk like a book, you know that?” he remarked, turning his head to study her features. “And you look like a song,” she countered with a slight smile. “I don’t mean to embarrass myself, but could you tell me your name again?” he asked softly. She fell silent for a moment, and he turned his gaze back to the wall, feeling a flush of embarrassment. “It’s Khali, Khali Drewitt,” she finally replied. Realisation hit him. It was her. He was silent. Everything was silent. “Hold on, are you—” he started to ask, but when he turned to look at her, the space where she had been was now empty, as if she had vanished into thin air.

© Aylin Louvel 2023-08-26

Genres
Novels & Stories