How I would have loved to be a beautiful boy. The kind people pause for, who can never pass unnoticed because the world follows him with its eyes as if by instinct. Someone who fills a space without saying a word, while soft whispers rise: there he goes. There goes Maxmillian. A boy one might have wished to be, a promise on the verge of being fulfilled.
I imagined how the light would fall on me. How glances would gather like sunrays on my shoulders, my face, the cadence of my stride. Not to possess me, but to share for a moment in something that seemed almost self-evident. Something you could not quite name, yet recognized at once, like the scent of first rain on a warm afternoon of sun-heated stone.
How I would have loved to be that well-formed boy, but without arrogance and without the burden of vanity. Someone who wore his body like a perfectly fitted coat, with a natural pride that did not need to be spoken. Someone who was enough, simply by being there. A body that could entice without asking, that could be gentle and tender, and at the same time stand proud and unyielding when desire arose. When I longed for you and did not even need to speak your name aloud for the air to tremble. That silence alone, that eloquent silence between us, would have been enough to explain everything.
In that dream, the world understood. Everything finally fell into place, like a sentence that had long been searching for its final, redeeming word. People would smile, glance at one another, and without shame say: look, there walk two princes. They would bring fruit, incense, and precious myrrh, not out of duty, but out of pure wonder. Because it is so rare for love to reveal itself so freely. So unabashedly real and radiant.
How I would have loved to be that vision, dressed in light cotton trousers brushing softly along my legs in the summer wind. My skin warm from the sun, my body loose and free, as if I came from nowhere and had nowhere to go. As if the day itself had been made for this one, unhurried existence. For this single breath. This single, almost imperceptible now.
In my mind I saw how you looked at me. How your gaze lingered and how desire slowly took shape in the space between us. Not hurried, not greedy, but like water that patiently finds its way along worn, smooth stone. My movements would be enough: a slight turn of my head, a careless step in the sand, and you would be drawn toward me as if it could never have been otherwise. As if no other outcome were imaginable than the two of us, here and now.
I wanted to be that wondrously beautiful boy in whom everything seemed to align. For whom you would pick flowers along the edge of an overgrown field: elderflower, cornflowers, sweet peas, lilacs, and those heavy peonies that could hardly carry their own scent. I would accept them with a smile that asked nothing and understood everything. My body would move with ease, sitting, standing, bending, as if every posture were a quiet assurance that I was truly there, and that I would remain.
And you, you would come closer. So close that you could feel my breath on your skin. You would hide your face in the hollow of my neck, because there was a place there where you had always wanted to rest. You would finally come home to a place you had never visited before, yet recognized at once by the heartbeat beneath my skin.
For a long time I believed all of this lay far beyond my reach, on the other side of a boundary I did not know but could feel. A boundary I encountered each morning when I looked in the mirror and saw who I was instead of who I wanted to be. And yet the longing remained, quiet and stubborn, like a river that continues to flow even in the driest summer, somewhere deep underground, unseen but alive.
But then. Then comes the day when longing stops searching for another and begins to rest within itself.
There, in that high meadow where the grass brushes against our legs, the air smells of hay, warm and sweet. The sun sinks slowly lower, turning everything it touches to gold. Somewhere in the distance a bird calls, a brief sound that only deepens the silence that follows. Here I show you my love, not with grand gestures, but with touches that linger and a gaze that no longer needs to hide. I lie beside you, close enough to drink in your warmth, far enough to see you in your full beauty.
Sometimes people linger in the distance. They do not judge, they simply look at something rare. Something that moves them without their knowing why, like music they have long known but cannot quite place. And for a moment, as if it were happening to them, they sigh softly: ah, how beautiful love is.
Evening comes as evenings always do, gentle and irreversible. We stand within it, in that golden, fluid light. And as I take your hand and feel the wind move through my hair, I realize that longing has stopped searching. It has found. It has found me.
I look at my hands. I feel the strength in my legs, the calm in my breathing, the warmth of your fingers between mine. The light falls on my shoulders as I once dreamed, but now it feels different, more real, softer. Not as a reward I have earned, but as something that was always mine and only waited for me to dare to receive it.
I no longer have to chase the dream, because I have become the boy I once dreamed of. I am Maxmillian. I am here, I am beautiful, and I am finally exactly who I am meant to be. Not as a memory of what might have been, but as the beautiful, tangible reality of now. Of this moment. Of this breath, this skin, this life, this light.
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