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Thunder crashed against the sky as the rain began to pour down. The sound of the water pelting my windows caused me to jump up, running to close anything open. I didn’t think I would be able to handle if the watercolor I had been working on for the past week in front of my large bay window was ruined.

I slid to a stop, my socks slipping on the dark wood floors. Reaching, then struggling with the tricky old lock. I stopped, my eyes focusing on a form outside.

There he was, slick coat slung over his shoulder, standing in the middle of my driveway. His shaggy hair stuck to his face, the droplets of water sliding over paths across his closed eyes. His midnight blue oxford shirt clung to him, seeping through to his skin...

My hands itched to run their fingers over him, to wrap him in my arms, never to let go. My traitorous feet wouldn’t let me go to him, however, to satisfy my wants. I knew better. He would make the first move. He always did; I always let him. I never would explain to myself why.

Intrusion... I felt as if I was spying on him as I stood there, my thoughts glued to him. Invading his presence, I allowed myself to be included in this moment with him. I felt like I was one of his young fans, obsessed with this man, yearning to be with him, yet waiting for that perfect moment to let myself be known. He was here for me, yet I was on the outside.

I finally tore my eyes away from his image as he started towards the door. I stood a few feet away, waiting for his entrance, waiting to come in.

It cracked open, strong fingers wrapped around the wooden edge, and then he revealed himself, standing in my doorway, a puddle around his feet, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Josh,” I smiled. “I didn’t know you were coming home today.”

Quietly he stood there for a moment, his expression still dancing across his features, untelling... You never knew what was -really- going through his head, that gorgeous mind he possessed, and he rarely told you. That was the world he lived in.

“Can you believe this storm? It came as such a surprise,” he spoke, making a motion to close the door and turn off the news program I had been watching.

“Yeah, it was.” I stood there watching him move, taking a CD out of his bag and carefully placing it into the player. The transcendent sounds of Mozart filled the small home, and nothing else was said. He came back to where I was standing, taking my hand into his and leading the way down the hall to my bedroom...

I loved waking up with Josh here. It gave the house a warm feeling, not present with his absence. We sat in the sunroom in the back, where I just soaked up his energy, his words. He was talking animatedly about Baroque, waving his lit cigarette around the air.

“It’s amazing how the colors just jump off the canvas,” he raved. “They blend together to form this powerful drama. You can almost see the scene unfolding in front of your eyes. For example, look at what Ruben’s did with ‘The Raising of the Cross.’ The figures are so twisted together, bound in their action. It bursts out at you. You feel Christ’s pain, muscles burning, ropes pulling, the blood dripping. God, you just want to jump in the painting and do something. And look at Bernini. He was an artistic genius!”

I smiled as he took a breath to take a sip of his coffee, quickly continuing about Gianlorenzo Bernini and his brilliancy.

How I was able to be with this man, I don’t know. I countlessly played how things began over in my mind. That familiar day in my favorite coffee shop, when a smooth voice came over the worn pages of my book.

“Eliot, huh? He’s decent, yeah, but do you ever read William Wordsworth’s stuff. It’s amazing.”

I had laughed, closing my book and marking the page at the mention of my favorite poet. He continued, saying that ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ was his favorite thing to read while he traveled, quoting the last stanza: ‘For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils...’ We stayed at the small table for three hours afterward.

I saw him for a few days following, making sure I would stop for a vanilla coffee after work. Each time we talked for hours, brilliant, deep conversation that you rarely found in a stranger.

One day he stopped coming in, and I couldn’t help the sinking feeling inside. I didn’t know how to explain it, but from the first moment, I was drawn in.

Imagine my excitement when three months later I saw those deep sapphire eyes greeting me once again. We spent the entire day painting abstract pictures in my house, transforming my attic walls into huge murals.

I finally found out what he did, that he was ‘JC’ to the world. Later I met his family and the guys. He let me glimpse into his world more and more. I couldn’t believe the life he led, holding things so privately to him, yet having the world watching. Very few people knew about us, and I was thankful for that. I didn’t know JC from ‘NSync. I knew Joshua Chasez, and he was the man I was in love with...

I strummed my guitar softly, closing my eyes as the sun rose higher in the morning sky. I sighed happily, listening to him continue on, occasionally adding comments on techniques or favorite paintings... how I loved him.

Things had begun to change without a realization on my part, and the more I thought about it, he didn’t know either. I had known from the beginning of our relationship that he would be gone, weeks at a time. I was fine with that. I didn’t depend on him. I would go about my business, my days, simply missing the feeling of him with me. He would call every few days, and that was all I needed.

I found myself crying one afternoon, angry with God knows what. I hadn’t seen him in months. It was another phone call here, another there. He seemed to always be in business mode, so when we did talk it was light, shallow... I didn’t understand.

I tried pleading with him to come home, but he claimed to be too busy, a recording to do, maybe a news appearance; he couldn’t leave. His perfectionism was coming out in full force. To him, the group wasn’t up to par, their standard had fallen, they weren’t trying enough. He just couldn’t leave.

For the first time I actually sat down to watch Josh perform on TV, maybe to see what he was talking about, maybe I just needed to see his face. I had never been interested in all the show and glitz in his life. I had heard his music, his passion, and I supported him. I just never wanted to see that part of him. That wasn’t him. I knew the real him.

I sat through hours of the music award show, wondering why they awarded musical trash such high honors. When I saw him and his friends, my heart broke. Gone was the conversationalist, the lover of fine art, philosopher... the man who gave a damn. What I saw was so superficial, no soul to him. He could have been any frat boy walking down the street, just happening to have the world at his fingers. That just wasn’t my Joshua.

He came home two days later. My fears were relieved. The light was back in his eyes again, and he immediately began conversing about a philosophy book he had read while he was away.

I finally brought everything that had been irritating me up at dinner that night while the two of us sat, sipping glasses of wine. Things had been calm for the evening, almost normal, so this time was as good as ever.

“Josh,” I started. “I saw you on TV the other night...”

“You watched it?” he questioned, not turning his attention from the salad he had been nursing.

“Um, yeah. I was a bit curious, and uh, were you feeling okay that night? You just looked a little off.”

His head came up quickly. “Off?”

“Don’t worry about the performance. I could tell you all put in worlds of effort. It just seemed as if you... you just seemed different.”

He shrugged lightly, the same blank gaze as before washing over his face. “You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand.”

“Please, Josh, let me try.”

“What do you want me to say? There’s nothing I could to get it through to you. It’s not your forte; it’s not your world, so just leave it alone.” He paused before mumbling, “You just wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s a part of you, and that’s something I... I don’t know. I’m just begging you to let me in. And that doesn’t seem like it should be a hard thing to do considering our relationship.”

“Just drop it.”

“No. You’ll let me in to the private part of you, but not the public? What is it that you’re hiding?”

“Get off my back!” he shouted, standing up from the table. “What didn’t you get? You belong here, not it the world where I live. You couldn’t even fathom life full of schedules, fans, appearances, shows... Don’t try to. I don’t even want you in that part of my life.”

With that he stood up and walked out of the kitchen. I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks as I sat there feeling more rejected than I ever had in my life. I looked around, unsure of what to do.

I broke away from the table suddenly, running to the stairs, up to the top floor. Cans of paint were thrown to the walls that began our story. I wanted to cover them completely, to forget him... cover up my hurt. He didn’t exist.

Finally I saw a large canvas he had done, standing in the corner, an abstract of two lovers, our self-portrait so to speak. With a sharp knife normally used to pry open cans, I tore the painting open, ripping it to shreds, not wanting to remember. With one last thrust, I opened the canvas over the female’s heart, slicing myself in the hand accidentally.

He came running at my cry, rushing to where I cradled myself on the floor. I glanced to him, hiding my bleeding wound behind me, shameful eyes.

“W-what did you do?” he asked, reaching out to me. I saw the pain enter his eyes when he saw the walls and his painting behind me, a small streak of blood over the female’s breast.

“You’re bleeding,” he gasped, taking my hand from me, looking for something to wrap around it. He found a clean rag on a shelf. “Let me get you to the hospital...”

“No,” I whispered, wind swirling around the old room, a storm rolling in.

“No?”

“Josh, what happened?”

“I don’t know. I was in the living room and heard you scream. I came as fast...”

“To us?”

Silence filled us both, his eyes darkening. “Nothing.”

“I don’t know you,” I said, new tears trickling down my face. “I never have.”

“That’s not true. You know me better than...”

“That’s not who you are. You claim to be such a private man, only allowing a few people to enter your world. Even those few people, the lucky, blessed people, aren’t allowed in.”

“You know me,” he whispered thickly.

I shook my head slowly. “I wanted so badly to love you, and I did love part of you, Josh. You were so much like me; you cared about the things I did, the beauty and honesty in life...”

“I’m so sorry. I... what I said downstairs, I didn’t mean it.”

“You did, and I understand.” Thunder crashed outside, and the room was lit up with a flash of light. I looked up to him, seeing all of him for possibly the first time. My heart was broken, as I suspect his was too.

We stood together, and in silence he led me downstairs to the bathroom, unwrapping the cloth he had put there, and lightly cleansing my hand. Afterward he grabbed his bag and walked out the door with his coat slung over his shoulder.

I ran to the window, watching him leave. Rain poured over him as he walked to his car, his shaggy hair sticking to his face, the droplets of water sliding over the paths his tears made.

My hands itched to run their fingers over him, to wrap him in my arms, never to let go. My traitorous heart wouldn’t let me go to him, however, to satisfy my needs. I knew better. He would make the first move. He always did; I always let him. I never would explain to myself why.

When he got to the middle of my driveway, he stopped, feeling my presence. He turned to me, whispering the words ‘I love you,’ and our eyes met in a final glance.