Three excerpts from [redacted]

Excerpt 1:

I don't know how to say it but I view Anton in a strange way, or at least not how you would expect someone to view someone like him.

To me, he's like a distant figure in an empty, barren landscape covered in snow. A foggy memory. Like a long forgotten soldier. The only way to follow him is to follow his footsteps. I can never see him clearly.

To me, he's has this strange gentle atmosphere surrounding him. Perhaps like how sometimes death doesn't suddenly appear and end someone. He's always been there, like a melody in the back of your head but the closer you get, the louder the tune gets until it suddenly overwhelms you. And in that instant, the melody stops, along with everything else. You either lie in an eternal sleep or you wake up.

Excerpt 2:

Anton means the world to me.

Each time I look at him, I believe there is no greater love nor beauty. Perhaps in my eyes, I have immortalized him. I feel so bad to not being able to love him fully, truly and deeply. I hate it. I'm so envious. So angry. My eyes fill with tears, on the brink of a sob. "I love you" feels like an understatement. It feels empty. It doesn't feel enough.

I feel like I'm forgetting your face each time I look away. I am sorry. My smooth brain could not captivate your perfect imperfections. I want your face, your features, each line of your skin, each strand of your hair engraved in the many crooked maze of my brain. I want you to consume my every waking moment to the very last breath I take. I don't want to forget you. Be a distant memory but be a memory nonetheless. I love you, my dear Anton.

Excerpt 3:

I feel as if images cannot capture his beauty.

Maybe paintings.

Images are bland. Tasteless. Just a click of a button and the image is preserved. How can I remember anything?

On the other hand, paintings can truly seal the essence of his beauty. The emotions put into each artwork by each artist reflect a different part of him, or rather how they view him. The love. The dedication. I try to keep him as realistic as possible, even when turning him into a monster of my own creation. Anton, my dear, I feel that each drawing you look different. Each time I pick up a pencil, with each stroke of lead, you change. Your image becomes more vivid. I am proud but it's not enough. I want to truly, one day, capture your essence in a portrait perfectly even when perfection does not exist.

But being with you, my dear Anton, everything feels possible. I would love to watch the snow fall with you again, Anton.