Forever Yours, Alitha

Prologue  I believe that an artist’s truest form of love is giving life to a person through their artwork. Art is everywhere—anything can be a subject. A dog, a cat, a bike, a flower, a sight, or everything at once. But there is something spectacular about an artwork where a person is the subject. Why? Because there will always be a story behind it. A deep connection lies within that masterpiece. There is a certain magic in drawing someone, in creating a masterpiece for a person, in immortalizing them within your world. It’s like gazing into their soul as you stare at a blank canvas. The moment your pen touches the paper, their eyes are etched into your mind, and nothing else compares to that feeling. To sketch your love, to paint them, to create a piece of art inspired by them—it is the purest form of devotion. I am Deya, and I am an artist. “Ms. D, pupunta ka ba do'n sa exhibit?” my secretary asked. I glanced at her, then back at the paintings adorning my office wall. Something felt missing. “Anong oras nga ulit 'yun?” I asked. She checked her watch before responding, “Alas singko po ng hapon.” It was already 3:30 PM. I sighed, nodding in response before turning back to my desk. I had already sent three of my artworks for display, but honestly, I wasn’t in the mood to go. It’s not that I was being difficult—I was just unmotivated. But I had no choice. Exhibits had become a regular part of my life. Invitations poured in because of my work, and attending had become routine. I painted whatever came to mind—sceneries, animals, silhouettes, anime characters—but there was one thing I had never painted: a person. Not even my own parents. I wanted my work to have meaning, to connect with something deeper. My parents never wished to be my subjects, and I respected that. Pushing my thoughts aside, I gathered my things and prepared to leave. Regardless of my personal feelings, exhibits were a good opportunity—not just for exposure but also for selling pieces at a significant price. Not that I painted for money. My passion was the driving force. Upon arriving at the venue, my fellow artists welcomed me warmly. As I wandered through the displays, one painting in particular caught my attention—it was of the artist’s wife. “Hi, Ms. D!” Mr. Chou, the creator of the masterpiece, greeted me. I smiled. “Ang ganda ni Ma’am Celia dito, Sir.” He chuckled, eyes gleaming with admiration. “She’s always pretty. She’s worth being on that canvas.” I admired his devotion. The way he looked at his painting reflected his deep love and pride. Who wouldn’t be proud of capturing someone they love so beautifully in art? “Kailan mo mahahanap ang future subject mo sa canvas?” he teased. I felt my cheeks warm. I had no answer to that. “Ilang exhibit pa kaya, Sir, ang mapupuntahan ko bago ko 'yan mahanap?” I joked. We laughed, but deep down, I knew—I had never found someone I wanted to immortalize in my art. I have dedicated my life to my craft and studies, pursuing architecture in college. I had never even been in a relationship. As the exhibit officially opened, visitors poured in. Some were students, others were casual passersby intrigued by the art. People took pictures while we, the artists, stood by and conversed. Then, suddenly—a bright flash struck my eyes. “Hala! Sorry po! May flash pala!” A young woman hurried toward us, clearly flustered. I blinked away the glare and observed her more closely. Not a student. A photojournalist? A name card hung around her neck. “Sorry po, sorry po talaga!” she said apologetically, meeting my gaze. I offered a small smile. “It’s okay. Just be careful next time.” She let out a breath of relief, then returned the smile. “Thank you po, Miss…?” “Deya.” She nodded. “My name’s Alitha.” As she walked away, an odd sensation settled in my chest. There was something about her—an intensity, a quiet confidence that resonated with me. It was strange, unfamiliar, yet undeniably captivating. I found myself turning to look at her again. She caught my gaze and smiled ever so slightly. A warmth spread through me, unexpected and unfamiliar. Who was this woman? The night grew colder as the exhibit continued, yet my mind remained elsewhere. I kept replaying our brief interaction, her voice, her gaze, the way she carried herself. There was something magnetic about her, and I couldn’t quite place what it was. I found myself wandering through the exhibit, but my thoughts lingered on Alitha. She was different. Unlike most people I had met, she didn’t seem overwhelmed by the art surrounding her—she analyzed it. She saw beyond the strokes and colors, searching for the hidden meanings beneath each layer of paint. I saw her again near one of my paintings. She was taking photos, capturing the essence of the piece through her lens. I hesitated before approaching. “You seem interested in that one,” I said. She turned, smiling. “It’s beautiful. The textures, the contrast—it’s almost like you painted a feeling rather than an image.” I blinked at her words. No one had ever described my work like that before. “That’s… an interesting way to put it.” She tilted her head. “Art isn’t just about what we see, right? It’s about what we feel.” Her words struck something deep within me. I had spent years painting emotions into my work, but I had never thought about it that way. She understood—she really understood. We talked more that night. About art, about passion, about the way the world can be framed through a lens or a brushstroke. She fascinated me in a way I hadn’t expected. By the time the exhibit ended, I realized something unsettling. I wanted to paint her.