The Muse

The Muse

By Jessica Daniliuk

Every time I take a photo, I look to capture both beauty and darkness. A beautiful rose surrounded by snow, with the capability to wilt at any moment. A clear night sky, with the exception of one star glowing amongst the black. But nothing compares to the inspiration I felt when I first laid my eyes on you.

You were carrying two boxes, one haphazardly placed on top of the other, into your apartment. With only one stair left, it seemed like you were going to make it, but lady luck was not on your side that day. You missed it by an inch, sending both boxes flying a foot away, and you, lying helplessly on the pavement. You pulled yourself together enough to sit on that villainous top step and began laughing. From across the street, I could hear the sweet melody and was enthralled. My attention only deepened when that laughter rearranged itself into deep sobs. Your head in your hands, you cried for almost an hour, not caring if anyone watched. You became my new muse.

A few weeks went by before I saw you again for longer than a second. It had taken you that long to switch addresses, but you were finally outside getting your mail. Most of the contents were of no use to you, but one letter in particular caught your eye. You read those few words like they were a novel until something seemed to pull you out of it. You dropped the envelope on the ground and walked back into your apartment without giving it a second thought. I took Mitsy for a walk and found the notice on the ground. Specks of dirt obscured some of the letters, but I was still able to make out the sender's name, Matthew Davis. I didn’t open it up—I would never infringe on your privacy like that—so I was only left to assume who this man was and how he elicited such a raw response from you. The edges were bent, but there was no darkness; it just seemed sad. He probably missed you, but you’re smart and didn’t give in to his thinly veiled attempt at reconciliation. 

After the letter haunted your fresh start, you began to stay up later and later. Eleven o’clock turned into midnight, and midnight turned into the early hours of the next day. The later you stayed up, the later you left for work. Matthew Davis still found a way to affect your life without physically being there to intervene. I couldn’t help but feel jealous over how he occupied your mind. Your face started lighting up less on camera, the darkness chiseling off sections of your beauty. 

I still remember the first time you spoke to me. The melody I heard before was now accompanied by a full orchestra, and I wanted to listen to the music on repeat. You saw Mitsy and called her “cute,” giving new life to a rather overused word. The interaction was fleeting, but I could tell it left a lasting impression. Even if it was minuscule, I held a space in your head. I understood that more and more, every time you lingered for a second at your mailbox and ordered another takeout delivery. I did my best to act surprised when you invited me to the pool party you were throwing for the block. You were hoping to spend more time with me.

That day, I took some of the best pictures of my career. I hope you understand how each was a love letter to you, a piece of my heart in a different form. The moment you saw my camera and asked me to take a picture of you, I nearly got down on one knee. You saw me. My soul had somehow manifested on the outside of my body, but for your eyes only. You wanted to see me, and I was ready to show you everything. The first step was to bring you deeper into the world of my work. I wanted to show you all of my photography and hoped you’d note the darkness alongside the beauty.

You posed as a shy version of yourself when I asked you to join me in the dark room. The façade quickly faded as you realized how open I was to all of you; there was no hiding from me. The moment you saw the versions of you I’d captured on film, a million emotions flashed behind your eyes. It’s difficult to accept a connection so deep, and I was prepared to give you the time you deserved. When you presented an obviously fabricated story and left, I wasn’t going to chase after you. Love is hard work, and I was prepared to put in overtime. 

When the police showed up at my door, I was surprised but not upset. Men like Matthew Davis had plagued you in the past, infecting the concept of love with hurt. I would never hurt you, but I understood that would take time for you to grasp. 

So, I will wait in this cell for as long as it takes. Right now, we are both in prisons, you in one of your own making. Once you realize I am the one for you, I’ll forget this setback. I will reassure you as many times as necessary how much I desire both your beauty and darkness. Now, I have all the time I need to figure out more ways to photograph it.