I was near finished with the work when I became suddenly aware that I was not simply painting his portrait—I was studying his soul.

My brushstrokes stuttered as I glanced from him to the art and back again. I had accurately portrayed his physical features—the light curl of his blonde hair, the soft curve of his pink lips, the brightness of his blue eyes—but somewhere in the layering of the paint and the subtle blending of the colors, I had captured something else in addition.

The innocence in his cheekbones. The sweetness in his stare. The fond memories hidden in the turn of his brow. Passion, naïveté, peacefulness, pride—it was all there, reflected by the painting the way light is by a mirror.

As I continued to etch into the linen canvas, he sat patiently, his countenance pleasant as a prince’s. His guilelessness had always amazed me; despite the cruelty of the world, he remained gloriously unblemished. I wondered uselessly how I would ever again be able to paint anything but him.

See, my portrait of him was undoubtedly my finest creation, but it was not at all the talent of me as the artist that made it exquisite, so much as it was the loveliness of the subject. I needed him, as fire needs air, as a heartbeat needs rhythm.

And I could not help but wonder, wordlessly, if he felt the same about me.