I am standing in his gallery, admiring his art, dazzled by his passion for it.
I see him approaching me, “Heyaa, come with me I wanna show you something”, he says, pulling me gently to an empty corner. He removes a drape off a painting on the wall, revealing it to me.
I will not be his only audience. I might not even be the first one to see this painting (I hope, I am the first).
There are others at his gallery, wondering at his work. But here he is, standing beside me, his eyes gleaming at me. I feel like my opinion matters to him. I matter to him.
I stare at the painting, spellbound. My heart loves the painting, my brain loves it too, everything of mine loves everything about it. “I love it”, I want to say but I hesitate. There is a fear inside me. I am afraid that this time it won’t be the same to him like the last million times I’ve said it. I’ve always meant it, just as much as I mean it now. I like his paintings, selflessly.
I’ve battled my fear for long, sometimes I’ve used different words, Amazing, Beautiful, Incredible, sometimes I’ve used every word. My vocabulary feels exhausted now.
“Do you like it? What do you think?”, he asks, his radiating eyes pierce through me and soothes me. I smile. “This one makes me so happy”, I say.