The sounds of our feet hit the tile floors, echoing as the guide drones on, telling us about each painting. But I am not listening. It does not matter the year, the medium, the title. What matters is the feeling.

I see this portrait, hung in an inconspicuous corner. Drifting away from the group, I find I cannot tear my eyes away.

It makes me wonder: What kind of girl was she? Would she have laughed at silly things, ran through the trees without second thoughts? Would she have held the hand of a small, timid child, helping to ease their fear?

I do not know. I do not know what went on inside her head as she was painted in this portrait, what went on behind those eyes. Was she always so made-up, or is that just a mask?

Would she have liked this picture at all? Did she smile when she saw it finally finished?

No one will answer these questions for me. No one will listen when I tell them I see sadness on that face, that I see a young girl still searching. No, no one will listen.

Would she have been my friend?