A chance encounter on a shorthaul flight could have sparked a simple romance: two seats side byby, the same destination, a tinny hum of the engine. He was Arthur, a gifted wildlife photographer whose life revolved around expeditions and gallery shows. She was Poppy, an architect who erected not only buildings but also her career with meticulous precision.
Both were independent, selfassured, each carrying the scars of a recent divorce that taught them to guard their personal space.
The idea sprang up like a flash in a dark room: why not keep the relationship light, free of obligations and domestic fuss?
No one believed it would last long, especially Arthurs studio mates. In their workshop they kept an unspoken bet on how long the newest elusive muse would endure.
Usually the tally ran into months.
Women were often drawn to Arthurhandsome, creative, never dull, and not stingy. Yet his colleagues also knew the other side of the genius artist. He lived at the whim of inspiration, was unbearable in everyday life, unpredictable in mood, and loved a good drink. Still, whenever he announced he had found love, everyone exhaled in relief. A lovestruck Arthur created with the fervour of a man possessed; his photographs burst with passion and life.
Then he met Poppy, his true muse. A woman who asked for nothing more than the joy of meeting. Lets try it without the cursed domesticitiesno where have you been? and no why didnt you call?, Arthur suggested. Lifes hard enough already.
Poppy smiled and agreed. First, she was convinced it would be a brief fling; second, after a painful divorce she wasnt keen on settling down forever. Their needs aligned perfectly.
Arthur could spend a week living in her cosy, perfectly ordered flat, then disappear for months to his cluttered studio filled with gear and rolls of film. They flew together to York, then didnt see each other for weeks. They spent three days in a country cottage before parting for three weeks.
A year later, Poppy became the centre of his creative gatherings.
Dreams do come true, she told friends over martinis, I grew up reading about Arctic explorerstough, independent, always on the move. My Arthur is like a polartraveller. He disappears on an expedition behind the lens and returns with flowers and shining eyes.
Arthur was delighted.
Poppy is a breath of fresh air, he confided to a mate over a glass of whisky. My life is chaos. Sometimes I crawl home unable to form a sentence. Other times I just need someone to listen and pamper me like a child. Most of all I need a week of peace. She gets that. If we lived together wed drive each other round the bend within a year. But as it stands, I always arrive with flowers and a smile, as if on a date.
He allowed himself occasional flings, yet always came back to Poppy. It felt like a karmic tie, something sturdier than a dull marriage. To outsiders, Poppy always seemed perfectly content.
Five years slipped by. Then the gallery Arthur worked closely with abruptly shut, the magazine he contributed to fell into recession, and the old creative collective slowly dissolved. Each person set off to find a new path.
A few years later, Poppy ran into Lena, a mutual acquaintance, at a coffee shop. They chatted, reminisced, and inevitably the conversation turned to Arthur.
Poppy gave a bitter smile, staring into her cappuccino.
Things never change. He comes and goes, then returns. Honestly, Im tired of it. The moment I hint that its time to settle, he looks at me like a cornered animal and asks, Are we not happy? He even gets jealous of his own shadow, afraid Ill slip away.
And you?
Ive decided I want to live together, maybe have a child. But Im still single, so Im not starting anything serious with anyone else.
So you still love him? Lena asked cautiously.
Perhaps. Or maybe its just habit, Poppy sighed. Or stubborn hope that hell wake up, change, become the man whos truly mine.
Poppy, Im sorry, but people like that dont change, Lena replied. My mother says the same. Everyone asks why I cling to a man who doesnt know what he wants. I cant walk away. Is it love?
Thats for you to decide, Lena shrugged. I never believed in socalled open relationships, but a free spirit is free, as they say. Lifes short; you cant get the years back.
Months later, Poppy finally gathered the courage to see a therapist. She spoke of fear of solitude, of burntout relationships, of unfulfilled hopes. After a session she returned home, brewed tea, and sat at the kitchen window. Her gaze fell on an old picture framea gift from Arthur.
It held a photo of them laughing, arms wrapped around each other at sunset. Poppy lifted the frame to dust it and accidentally dropped it. The glass shattered, revealing a small envelope tucked behind.
With trembling fingers she tore it open.
Inside lay a photograph, not the polished staged shot but a candid one: she asleep, wrapped in a blanket, a lamp casting light over her architectural sketches. Arthur had taken it while she slept. On the back, in his handwriting, read: The only place my inner chaos quiets. Sorry I never had the courage to say it aloud. I have always been yours; I was just scared to admit it.
A week later, Arthur knocked as usual, a bouquet of peonies in hand. Poppy opened the door, but instead of a smile she slipped him the old photograph.
He glanced at the picture, then at Poppy, and for the first time the usual sparkle in his eyes was replaced by a weary quiet that had accumulated over years of running.
It seems, Arthur said softly, our expeditions are ending. Its time to come home.
And this time he crossed the threshold not as a fleeting guest, but as a man finally ready to stay.
Sometimes the longest journeys bring us back to the place we started, and the true adventure lies in choosing to remain where love quietly waits.
