Beautiful

A Story by Eleven

She wasn't pretty; she was beautiful.
That was the first I noticed about the girl who was destined to change my life. When you passed by her or looked at her, you could not help but notice it �" the glow. It wasn't like the glow of the sun or of the table light; it was softer, it was like the glow of the firefly, like that of the moon.
It was the first day of the art class. She sat from across me. I think she glanced towards me once, but maybe that was because I was unblinkingly staring at her. We were doing still life and as our first assignment, we had to paint a banana. I knew that I was a born artist; I had a drawer full of awards and certificates to prove it. At the end of the assigned hour, our teacher judged the paintings. I looked on as she told others how they could improve their paintings. When she reached the girl’s painting she stood there awhile with her face scrunched up and then finally said that her technique was different and that it needed improvement. Needless to say, she said, mine was the best. Unable to contain my curiosity, when the class ended, I walked down to see the girl’s painting. I had to say, it was the most beautiful painting I had ever seen. While most of us in the class had focused on the banana, she had seen everything around it; the shadows, the shades, the light falling on it and reflected by it. I looked at her, my face filled with awe. “I drew what I saw,” she said. “It is beautiful,” I said. She looked at me, surprised and said, “Our teacher sure doesn't like it much.” I started to go back to pick up my things and turned around abruptly and said, “Hey, by the way I am Miles.” She held out her hand, “I am Taylor,” she said. We shook hands and then I went back to pick up my bag, I walked out of the door and breathed in the summer air, I knew this was going to be the start of a long friendship. And it was.
We met every day at the art class. Her art was beautiful, while mine, I guess, was just pretty. I once asked her how my painting looked. “It’s good,” she said. “Just good,” I asked. “I don’t know,” she said, “It’s just that you paint what you look at, not what you see.” She paused and then continued, “Take that glass bottle we are painting right now, as an example, when I look at it I don’t just see a glass bottle. I see the light falling on it, getting refracted and forming a rainbow, I see the shine, I see the shadows. Art is not about the object, it is about the lights and the colors. The glass bottle you have drawn has the perfect dimensions and perfect shape, but it is just a good looking glass bottle and nothing more.” I knew at that moment that I had fallen in love with her.
She wasn't like the others; she was different. She was the kind who noticed a little ladybug crawling on the roadside. She was the kind who could find a pretty little flower in a host of weeds. She was the kind who could trace out objects in the clouds. She was the kind who could find beauty in everything. I remember the first time when I went to her house I was taken aback by the amount of books that lined the walls of her room. We sat there for hours talking about her obsession with books. I asked her that why did she love to read so much. She answered, “Some people read to escape the miseries of their world, some to avoid boredom and some to increase their vocabulary, but there are a few who read because they just like to, they have no reason for it. I am one of those.” Then she turned towards me and asked, “Why do you like to paint.” I answered, “I don’t know, I guess art is a part of me, I can’t live without it, I paint because I love to.” What I had said right then was something I had never known about myself, but I was the truth.
Months passed; summer turned into monsoon, monsoon to winter and now it was spring. It was a pleasant evening and we were roaming in the sparse jungle behind her house. Fireflies fluttered in the air all around. As I stood and watched her trying to catch a firefly, I decided that I had to tell her. I had to tell her that I loved her. I think that she loved me too, though she never let it show. Suddenly it was quiet all around. She was standing beside the river looking up at the stars which were slowly dotting the sky, her silhouette stood against the rising full moon, the moonshine falling on her. I slowly walked up to her, “I love you,” I whispered to her. She just looked at me, a tear fell softly onto her cheek and sparkled, “I am sorry,” she said, “I have to go. I love you too, Miles. I am really sorry.” I bent forward to kiss her, and as my lips touched hers, she began to fade at the edges, she was glowing now �" like the sun, and then where a minute ago she was standing, was just thin air.
The next few months passed in a daze, but I do remember the police questioning me and me giving them vague answers. In the end they had concluded that she had drowned in the river or something like that. A stupid theory, I know, they didn't know how far away from the truth they were, only if I knew the truth.
Years had passed. She had now become just a memory, a beautiful one. I am quite a famous artist now. The next evening was the grand opening of my art gallery and I hadn't painted the masterpiece yet. I had been thinking a lot about Taylor, lately. I picked up the blank canvas and placed it on the easel and started to paint. The next evening I got ready for the grand opening. Celebrities, politicians, socialites, all were in attendance. After the short speech I made, people congratulated me and then dispersed into the various galleries and hallways to see and bid the paintings. I walked down the corridors and came to the main hall and looked at the painting that occupied the center stage, it was my masterpiece. A girl’s silhouette against the moon; her hair flying as she tried to catch one of the many fireflies that danced in the air.