The Archive of Devotion

Blood first. Rhys's fist shattered Darren's sneer, pain blooming hot and metallic across his

knuckles. It wasn't the stinging in his hand, already swelling, that was noted. It was the look of

shock on Juliette's face behind Darren, the wide, ocean-blue eyes that gave back the fluorescent

brilliance of the high school hall. Darren had pushed her, hard, so that her new sketchbook went

flying across the battered linoleum, pages fluttering like hurt birds. Rhys, who was normally a

ghost that floated through these troubled corridors, had acted before thinking.

"Get back, Miller," Rhys growled out, his voice hoarse but with a surprising edge, pushing

Darren back. He positioned himself between the bully and Juliette, a sudden, wiry barricade in

worn jeans and a band t-shirt. Darren, larger but momentarily dazed, swiped at a bloody lip.

"Freak sticking up for weirdo artist? Adorable," Darren sneered, but the growing crowd made

him pause. With one last glare, he walked away, cursing Rhys knew he'd probably forget by

lunch.

Rhys spun around. Juliette was already scrambling for her sketchbook, her bright red hair

spilling out of its sloppy bun, cheeks aflame with anger and embarrassment. She looked up, those

blue eyes searching his face. "Rhys? You. you didn't have to do that."

He shrugged, wincing as he curled his stinging hand. "He pushed you." As if that was all that

needed to be said. To Rhys, it *did*. Defending Juliette Valentine was as natural as drawing

breath. He stooped, assisting her in scooping up scattered charcoal pencils. His fingers touched

hers as he returned a smudged pastel. A small spark, like static, traveled up his arm. He briskly

averted his eyes, intensely regarding a dropped eraser.

Juliette rose, holding the sketchbook tight against her body like armor. A tiny, uncertain smile

brushed her lips. "Well. thanks. Seriously. You okay?" She indicated his hand.

"Fine." He tucked the hand into his pocket, concealing the split knuckles. The heat where their

fingers had touched remained.

That was Rhys Evans: eighteen, quiet, watching. He lived at the edge, a chameleon able to

become part of the hum of Crestwood High. All except Juliette. With her, his silence carried a

heavier meaning – fierce concentration, a rich well of emotion beneath monosyllabic remarks

and darting looks. He'd loved her, with a subtle, fiery passion, from sophomore Biology, where

she'd indignantly debated Mr. Henderson over the morality of frog dissection, her eyes flashing,

her words spilling over each other in a compelling torrent. He'd sat two rows behind, paralyzed,

completely enthralled by her blaze.

Juliette, on the other hand, was a storm. Eighteen, energetic, creative, and always on the go. She

felt things loudly, painted with abandon, laughed body-first, and crashed just as loudly. Her life

was a kaleidoscope of feelings, art projects, and ever-changing friend cliques. Rhys was her rock.

The reserved kid down the street in Honors English and AP Art History. The person who always

seemed to carry an extra pen when hers blew up, who somehow remembered the archaic

reference for her surrealist art project, who actually heard – really heard – when she vented about

her crazy family or her current bout of creative stalling. He was secure. Placid. Like her old,

well-worn sweatshirt. The concept of Rhys being anything more. it just hadn't sparked on her

busy, vibrant radar.

Their friendship existed in stolen glances. Such as the frayed armchairs in the rear corner of the

Crestwood Public Library, out of the judgmental gaze of the high school cliques. Rain pounded

against the tall windows on one Tuesday afternoon, plunging the stacks into heavy shadow.

Juliette was working frantically to sketch, attempting to capture the desperation of Dickensian

London for her English Lit final project. Rhys sat across from her, apparently reading Camus,

but his eye kept flicking to the intense focus on her face, the way she chewed her lip, the smear

of charcoal on her cheekbone.

"Oh, it's hopeless!" Juliette sighed, tossing aside her pencil. "I can't make it bleak enough.

Everything just looks. soggy."

Rhys shut his book. "Despair isn't bleak," he murmured. Juliette raised an eyebrow, startled he'd

spoken off the cuff. "It's heavy. Like wet wool. Choking. And there's always this. little spark,

huh? The hope they can't afford to hold on to but can't quite snuff out. That's the worst to paint."

Juliette glared at him. His taciturn contemplation pierced her irritability. "Wet wool. a spark." she

whispered, resuming her pencil work, studying her drawing afresh. "Yeah. Yeah, just like that."

She began shading in a different manner, her strokes more controlled. "How do you do that,

Rhys? Notice things like that?"

He merely shrugged, a pale pink flushing his ears. "Read a lot." He returned to Camus, but a

small, hidden smile crept onto his lips. He'd provided her with something. Made her understand.

It was sufficient. For the time being.

The "cute" aspect of Rhys's love was intertwined with these mundane strands. He knew Juliette

took her coffee black with two sugars, but always burned her tongue because she was too

impatient to let it cool. He knew she hated the feeling of wet wool sweaters (hence his library

observation). He knew her favorite band was the obscure indie group 'Static Bloom', and he’d

spent weeks tracking down a rare vinyl pressing of their first EP for her seventeenth birthday. He

gave it to her with usual clumsiness – "Saw this. Thought you might not have it." – but the

expression of shocked joy on her face was worth every minute spent online.

He spoke of his love in low tones, fiercely. When Juliette first had a serious art exhibit at a grimy

local coffee shop, Rhys was present before opening time, assisting her in hanging paintings that

seemed to hum with frenzied life. He didn't rave; he nodded at a small, nearly concealed form in

one whirling abstraction. "Him. He's. waiting. But he knows she won't come back." Juliette had

gazed at the place, then at Rhys, a peculiar knot in her throat. He saw things in her paintings

*she* hadn't intentionally placed there. He took her occasionally, not formal portraits, but

spontaneous moments: giggling as she spilled coffee on her jeans, scowling in concentration as

she graffitied an alleyway (legally, for class), sleeping on the library chair, sunlight glinting on

the gold in her red hair. He never shared the pictures with her. They were his private archive of

love.

The bonfire at the beach over graduation summer was a collision point. Freedom sparkled in the

salt air, combined with wood smoke and cheap booze. Juliette glowed in the firelight, her energy

buzzing. She had been accepted into her dream art school in the city. Rhys was staying close in

community college, transferring later to study engineering. The future loomed large and

frightening.

Juliette danced wildly, a spin of arms and giggles. Rhys stood on the perimeter of the light,

propped against a log of driftwood. He noticed Alex Carter, a college student Juliette had been

hitting on all evening, draw her in, whisper something that sent her throwing her head back and

laughing. Something icy and hard rammed through Rhys's heart.

Later, when the fire burned to embers and folks wandered away, Juliette sat beside him on the

chilled sand, smelling of smoke and spray. "Fleeing the madness, Evans?" she laughed, nudging

his shoulder.

"Just thinking," he said.

"About the great unknown?" she asked, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Me too. It's

terrifying. Thrilling."

Rhys drew a deep breath. The salt air, the closeness of the dying night, the line of her profile

against the sky scattered with stars… it broke his normal reserve. "Juliette." he began, his voice a

little harsh. She turned towards him, her face open, questioning. He searched her eyes, the flame-

light lost but a soft glow from the moon that caught the blue. "You know. you're going to be

great. Out there. You already are." He hesitated, the words he'd carried around for so many years

fighting their way upward. "I. I wish."

"Wish what?" she asked softly, leaning fractionally closer.

He saw it then. Not rejection, not quite, but a deep, unadorned affection. The easy friend. The

safe haven. The understanding that telling his truth could shatter this precious thing they had, just

as she was about to take flight, struck him like a bodily blow. The fear, the utter terror of

changing her view of him, of adding awkwardness to their seamless connection, gripped him

hard. He swallowed the scalding declaration. "I wish. I could watch your first big show in the

city," he trailed off, staring down at the sand.

Juliette smiled, a fond, warm smile that turned easily into a knife. "You will! You'd better come

by. Often. Who else will inform me when my despair is not wool-like enough?" She elbowed

him. "You're my anchor, Rhys. Don't know what I'd do without you."

Anchor. The term resonated in the empty chamber where his bravery had been. He grinned,

forcing it. "Always."

Time folded into geography. Juliette dove into the whirlwind of electric art school in New York.

Her Instagram was a maelstrom of new friends, gallery shows, all-night studio marathons, and

city streets that hummed with her frantic pace. Rhys remained in Crestwood. Day classes at the

community college, nights spent working at the town's ailing independent bookstore. He tracked

her online existence with a secret pain, saving each photograph, reading each caption regarding

her successes and setbacks. He was a master of the strategically timed text:

*Saw this mural downtown. Made me think of your 'Urban Decay' series.* (Attached: a picture

of flaking paint on a brick wall).

*Heard Static Bloom is performing at Bowery Ballroom in a month. Are you going?*

*That painting you posted. the blue one. It's amazing, J. Seriously.*

He came twice. Once to her messy freshman dorm room, covered in her artwork, with the scent

of turpentine and ramen. He brought back her favorite sour gummies from the corner store in his

hometown – unavailable in NYC, it seems. She hugged him hard. "Rhys! Sanity, you've brought!

You!" They strolled past galleries, Juliette chattering away at a mile a minute about ideas and

methods that flew way above his head but whom he listened to, entranced, just observing the

enthusiasm bring her face alive. He snapped a picture: Juliette standing against a huge abstract

painting, small but alive. His lock screen for twelve months.

The second visit was after her first brutal critique session reduced her to ashes. He rode the bus

all night, appearing at her small, shared apartment at dawn with coffee and bagels. He did not

speak platitudes. He sat on her paint-stained floor as she wept angry, furious tears, then stormed

at pretentious professors. He handed her tissues, brewed more coffee, and finally said,

"Remember Darren Miller?" A laugh that was more watery than actual came out. "Yeah?"

"You pushed him away *after* I pushed him. Hard. In the stomach." A ghost of a smile played

upon her lips. "He had it coming."

"So does this emotion," Rhys spoke softly. "But you'll push back. You always do." He spent the

weekend, a quiet, constant presence while she rebounded. He left a fresh sketchbook and a box

of high-quality charcoal pencils on her desk. No letter.

While that, Rhys led a parallel existence. He went out on the occasional date. Nice women who

appreciated his reserved consideration. Sarah, a coworker in the bookstore, lasted nearly six

months. She was kind, intelligent, and cared for him deeply. But one night, strolling home

beneath the autumn stars, she caught him. "Rhys," she said quietly, her sad but compassionate

eyes. "You're great. But. you're not here, are you? Not completely." He couldn't lie. His heart was

300 miles from where he stood, pulsating in tandem with Juliette's fractured beat. They broke up

on good terms, another victim of his unrelenting, invisible love.

Years blurred together. Juliette graduated, struggled, got a job at a revolutionary design firm. Her

work matured, intensified, was coveted. She dated musicians, artists, a venture capitalist.

Relationships flared brightly and burned out, leaving her bruised but never broken. Rhys was her

constant digital touchstone throughout. Her lifeline to a bygone era. He became a successful civil

engineer, designing bridges and parks, rooting structures that stood firm while the world

changed. He never married. His own apartment was tidy and spartan, with the exception of a

single shelf devoted to out-of-print art books and a small, framed photograph of Juliette laughing

on the beach at age eighteen, shot with his vintage film camera.

Juliette, stuck in the frenetic rhythm of her own life, took Rhys's absolute stability as profound,

platonic love. He was her anchor, her chronologist, keeper of her pre-NYC existence. The

*concept* of Rhys being in love with romantic feelings was strange, near unbelievable. He was

Rhys. Steadfast, dependable Rhys. The boy who would bleed for her in a hallway yet was unable

to put into words his heart. His love was the oxygen she breathed without realization – necessary,

unseeable.

It dawned too late. Fifteen years since the bonfire on the beach, Juliette was in Crestwood for her

mother's birthday. She dropped by Rhys's apartment – a routine — to leave him a prohibitively

pricey coffee blend he enjoyed. His car was in the driveway, but he didn't open the door. Strange.

She used the spare key he’d given her years ago ("In case of emergency, or you need to escape

your family"), a pang of nostalgia hitting her as it turned in the lock.

The flat was unsettlingly quiet. Sunlight filtered through the blinds to illuminate dancing motes

of dust in the stillness. "Rhys?" she said loudly, her voice ringing out slightly. Silence. A shiver

of unease ran down her spine. She moved toward the bedroom and opened the door.

Rhys was on the bed, dressed, one hand lightly placed on his chest as if he'd merely dropped off

to sleep. His face was serene, but completely, appallingly still. The book he'd been reading – a

thick history of engineering feats – was open, face down, on the floor next to the bed. A massive,

instantaneous heart attack, the doctor would tell them later. Instant. Painless. Thirty-eight years

old.

The room spun. Juliette retreated, colliding with the doorframe, a constricted cry ripping from

her throat. Not Rhys. Firm, *unshakeable* Rhys. The oxygen was sucked from the room. She

fell to her knees next to the bed, her hand above his, too terrified to touch the awful stillness.

Sorrow, raw and choking, overwhelmed her. Her anchor. Dead.

In the dazed days that followed, sorting through Rhys's stuff to help his stoic, grief-stricken

parents, Juliette discovered the box. It was stashed on a high shelf in his neatly arranged

bedroom, an unadorned, cardboard box. It contained, lovingly preserved, the record of his heart.

* The Static Bloom vinyl, so rare it was almost mythical.

* All of the birthday cards she'd ever sent him, even the cheesy ones from high school.

* Dozens of pictures: her laughing, focusing, painting, sleeping. Moments she'd not known he'd

recorded. Each told of a deep, sweet attention.

* A small, dog-eared sketchbook. Not hers. *His*. Turning pages with shaking hands, Juliette

discovered page after page of careful sketches: *her*. Not portraits, but pieces. The curve of her

neck as she gazed from the library window. Her paint-stained fingers holding a brush. The

particular angle her hair brushed against her forehead when she was exhausted. Investigations of

light on her skin. Every line infused with a reverence, an ache, a deep intimacy that took her

breath away.

* And very much the letters. Bundles of them, tied with plain string, covering almost two

decades. Written on notebook pages, bookstore receipts, the reverse of takeout menus. Never

posted.

With a very tearful scream caught in her throat, Juliette opened the first bundle. The earliest

letters were clumsy, teenager's handwriting.

* * ‘Oct 12, Senior Year: J, Saw you crying today behind the gym after that fight with Lisa.

Wanted to tell you she's an idiot. Wanted to tell you you're the most real person in this whole

stupid place. Wanted to tell you… other things. Couldn't. Just brought you that terrible vending

machine hot chocolate. You smiled. That was enough. Almost.’

* ‘May 30, Graduation Night: On the beach. You glowed like fire in the moonlight. You said I

was your anchor. I wanted to be your sail. Your compass. Your entire damn ocean. I nearly said

it. The words were there. But you were so happy, so free… and I was so afraid of clipping your

wings. So I swallowed them. They taste like salt and regret.’

The letters wrote his life, as seen through his affection for her.

* ‘Nov 15, Year 2 Art School: Received your message regarding the savage critique. Took the

first bus. You wept on my shoulder. My heart seemed to shatter for you and with you. Wanted to

plant a kiss on the crown of your head. Wanted to say that your artwork rips holes in the universe

and anyone who can't appreciate that is blind. Spoke to you instead about Darren. You chuckled.

It was something.’

* ‘March 4, Sarah Broke Up With Me: She told me I wasn't all there. And she was right. How

could I be? The best of me has always belonged to you, J. Even when you didn't realize it.

Especially then.’

* ‘Sept 18, Your First Solo Show Opening: You glowed. A supernova. Everyone noticed. I stood

in the back, overflowing with pride.*. You met that guy, Marco, and you called him your 'oldest

friend.' Threw me a knife. Then you grinned at me, your grin, the one you save for people you

care about… and the knife twisted. Gorgeous pain. Wouldn't exchange being your friend for all

the oxygen in the world. But God, Juliette, sometimes I wish you could see… just once… what I

* ‘Jan 10, Last Year: Spotted a couple today, old, walking hand in hand on the park bench that I

drew. They seemed. settled. Happy. Thought of you. Wondered if you're happy. Hope so. That's

all I've ever really needed. Even if it's not me. (Though Christ, J, sometimes wanting feels like

maybe it might actually kill me.)’

The final letter was dated just a week before he died. Written on a piece of graph paper from his

work desk.

* ‘J, Had lunch at that little Italian place you loved near your old studio today. Remember how

you always ordered the carbonara and burned your mouth every single time? Made me smile.

Passed by the alley where you did that massive graffiti mural in '09. Now it's faded, hidden

mostly by advertisements. But I still see its ghost. Like I still see you everywhere. 18 years. A

heartbeat and an eternity. Sometimes I ask myself… if I had spoken on the beach that night… if I

had been bolder… would things have been different? Or would I have lost you sooner stupidly?

The past is solid. Fixed. Done. All I have is the present. And the present is this: I love you,

Juliette Valentine. I've loved you since you fought over frog guts and lit up the room. I love your

flames and your storms and your crazy, gorgeous heart. I love you in a bone-deep, quiet, and

forever kind of way. And not telling you… is the biggest regret and the only way I know how to

hold onto you in my life. Perhaps it is selfish. Likely is. But there it is. My not-sent truth.

Perhaps one day, when we're old and grey, I'll be brave enough. Or perhaps I'll just continue to

love you quietly, the way I've always done. Either way… it's yours. Always has been.’

Juliette slumped on the floor of Rhys's vacated apartment, surrounded by the physical evidence

of a love so massive and quiet she'd wandered through its terrain for two decades without

knowing. The letters spread out around her like leaves that had fallen. The enormity suffocated

her. The years of unshakeable loyalty, the silent sacrifices, the deep knowing he'd provided… it

hadn't been friendship. It had been a lifetime of fidelity. A love story written all in the margins, in

the letters never sent, in the stolen looks, in the split knuckles and sparsely released vinyl records

and expertly brewed cups of coffee.

The "cute" high school crush had been the seed. The "passionate" love had been the silent,

insistent unfolding – a forest grown in hiding, yearning towards a sun that was never aware of its

presence. And she… she had been blind. Blissfully, despairingly blind.

A raw, animal cry ripped from her throat – a sob and a scream of sheer, tearing regret. She held

the last letter tight to her chest, the paper shattering against the wild beat of her heart. "Rhys,"

she breathed, the name a shattered prayer in the crushing quiet. "Oh God, Rhys. I didn't know. I

didn't see."

But the quiet didn't break. The person who bled for her, who loved her with an intensity that

transcended time and silence, was no longer. The truth, so zealously chronicled, so painfully

evident now, had come a lifetime too late. All that was left was the shattering echo of his

unspoken words and the suffocating burden of a love known only in its abiding, heart-shattering

absence. The anchor was lost, and she was floating in a sea of sorrow and comprehension, finally

glimpsing the shore only as it disappeared forever from behind her.