How He Loved Her

He looked at her as if she was his favorite painting in the museum.

No, that would be an understatement.
He looked at her as if she was the only piece of art in the world.

She was a Picasso— a coming together of seemingly misplaced parts and colors wherein she kept her reasons well. She was madness. Crowds were easily drawn to her because she was… different. People loved different. But other than that, she was difficult. She would not reveal so much of herself and that frustrated those who claimed to love her. Eventually they all left. One by one they all walked away. Except for him. He stayed. And if he had to go, he made sure to come back. Always.

For most times, he tried to figure her out. He tried to make sense of what she was or what she could possibly be. One time he felt like she was helping him. He heard her speak. Without a sound, he heard her speaking to him and nobody else. When he looked at her from different perspectives, he realized every angle told a different story. She was all about hope and fear, love and hate. Hell, she was a dichotomy. She was duality. That confused him even more. And yet, he loved her. He loved all of her, even the parts he could not understand and probably will never understand.

It occurred to him once: could he keep her? Then the more relevant question immediately dawned on him: Does she want to be kept? So he let her stay in her own frame, in her wall where she will always feel safe. And he always stood close enough to watch her.

He loved her the way a masterpiece should be loved— timeless but distant. He loved her the way she wanted to be loved. That, for him, was more than enough.

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