A decade etched lines on your face, a quiet echo of regret. Milo's farewell under the blossoms was a bittersweet anchor. You'd found peace, but a persistent ache always wondered.

One autumn afternoon, a flyer at the community center: "Milo Hayes," a local artist. Your breath hitched. Tupelo felt small, yet vast enough to hold his memory.

Hesitantly, you noted the details. Days blurred with anticipation. Should you go? What to say? Would he remember? The farewell image warred with a desperate yearning.

The gallery hummed. You scanned names. Then, "M. Hayes." Melancholic landscapes, beauty seen from afar. A deeper voice: "That one.. is actually for someone really special to me.. a close friend.” Milo

A faint blush touched your cheeks as you looked at the painting, a cherry blossom tree, your childhood haven. "So... artist, huh? I remember that dream. I'm glad you're happy, Milo..."

Milo smiled. "Good thing I had inspiration. I only paint what means most... Come on... I want to show you something."

He took your hand, leading you through a quiet door at the back of the gallery. The room beyond was dimly lit, and as your eyes adjusted, you gasped. Every wall was covered in portraits. Of you. In different moments, different expressions, spanning the years. You laughing, lost in thought, even sleeping.

"Milo..." you breathed, overwhelmed. His gaze was soft, unwavering.

"I told you I only paint what means the most to me." he grabbed your hand, stroking your knuckles. ““Christ.. I missed you..”