It’s Been 40 Years, but I’ve Never Stopped Thinking About Him: I Decided to Track Him Down

Forty years have passed, yet I still think of him. One day I resolved to find him again.

By chancewhile scrolling through the web between a recipe for apple crumble and an advertisement for antiwrinkle creamI stumbled upon his name, his photograph: silver hair, round spectacles, a smile that I recognised instantly.

My heart stuttered, as if my body remembered something my mind dared not name. I clicked. It was his artist profile, a tiny gallery tucked away in a back street of Shoreditch, London. Pictures of landscapes, ancient gateways, a woman looking out of a window. Beneath one canvas read, Autumn remembers more than summer.

I knew it was him. James. My James from the school years, the boy I loved in silence throughout my final year and long after. After exams he left for university, while I stayed behind.

Life went its own waymarriage, children, then divorce, a long silence and routine. Yet that feeling never truly died; it simply hid itself deep, like a letter left in a drawer.

Before I could think any further I typed: I do not know if you remember me, but I do. If you fancy a cup of tea, I will be in York.

He replied the same day: I remember. I always have tea after four. My address is on the website.

I bought a train ticket, packed a small bag with a warm cardigan and the old unsent letter. In the carriage I watched the trees rush pastgolden, amber, frostkissedand felt a strange sensation, as if time were turning back, as if I were eighteen again.

When the train pulled into York station, for the first time in ages I sensed that something truly important was about to happen. I did not know what, but I was determined not to miss it.

His studio lay down a narrow lane off the historic Shambles. Old, steep steps led to a heavy door with a small glazed window, above it a brass plaque read, James M. Painting Studio. My heart thumped louder as I knocked. A moment of silence, then a familiar voice: Open.

Inside was not what my imagination had painted, yet exactly what it should be: the smell of turpentine, dim light, daylight pouring through a high window, canvases propped against the walls, a jar of brushes, a cup of halfdrank coffee. He stood at the easel, turned slowly, as if waiting for me. He smilednot broadly, but quietly, with his eyes.

You havent changed at all, he said, though it wasnt true. Yet there was no deceit in his tone.

You havent either, I answered.

He ushered me into an overfilled armchair, poured water for tea, and we began to talk. At first about nothingtrains, traffic jams, how Yorks streets glow in autumn. Then about everything: the years that had passed, our separate lives, the loss of loved ones, the loneliness that lingered amidst crowds.

The table held freshbaked bread; steam rose from mugs scented with clove. Soft golden light filtered through the window, and the room was so quiet I could hear my own breath.

Do you ever think of that summer? he asked suddenly.

Every day, I replied before I could stop myself.

For two days we were inseparable. We walked the paths of HydePark, ate fishandchips on NewGate, laughed over memories only those who grew up with orange soda in glass bottles and the school bells shrill tone could share.

He never asked how long I would stay. I never said when I would leave. It felt like a bubbledelicate, silent, beautiful, and undeniably real.

On the third morning I packed my bag and left it by the door. He handed me a steaming mug and said simply, Dont go back yet.

But I have responsibilitieshome, work

He shook his head. Everything can wait there. Here here waits someone who does not wish to lose you again.

I looked out at the ambertinted trees and thought, perhaps this time I should stay.

I did not board the train. My bag remained by the door, and I stayed by the window, cup in hand, settled in his armchair, within his world. For a moment I felt ashamed, as if I had acted irresponsibly, foolishly. That feeling passed quicker than it had arrived.

I lingered another day, then another, and soon I stopped counting.

In his studio time moved differently. I helped him sort pigments, dusted frames, read aloud while he sketched. It became clear that one could live simply, lightly, without dissecting every moment.

Evenings we strolled the cobbled streets of the Old Town, side by side yet apart from the crowd. No one stared; perhaps because it seemed natural, or perhaps because age mattered little to anyone.

One afternoon I found a small sketch on his workbench: a figure seated by a window, bathed in light. The caption read, The autumn that returned. I said nothing, simply brushed the paper with my fingertips and smiled quietly.

I do not know if this will last forever. I make no plans, ask no questions. That single instanthim saying, Stay, and me hearing it trulysuffices.

I waited forty years for this decision. Now I no longer wish to wait any longer.