#lifejustdoesntbegin

Ever since I can remember, I have been able to see colours. It was like a default setting. The trees are green, the sea is blue and my favourite sweater is red. I knew that just as if I knew that my mom and my dad loved each other very dearly. And they loved me and my little sister Sarah just as much .My parents, unlike other people, always talked about colours. It didn’t make much sense to them to keep the most natural process on this world from their children: Seeing the colours that surrounded us when we laid eyes upon our one true love. It was often portrayed in a fairytale, where the prince had to slay a dragon and save the damsel in distress in order to see her fair hair and her green eyes that will enrapture the prince with a loving gaze and they will live happily ever after. It didn’t make much sense to me, considering I’ve been seeing colours ever since I could think and there was, if I remembered correctly, neither a big, dangerous dragon I’d had to slay, nor was there a princess I’d had to save. Therefore, I started asking myself why I did see the colours. How come I didn’t have to meet the princess and her lovely green eyes?

“Do you know who my soul mate is?” I asked my mother once, after she had finished the bedtime story and was about to close the book. My mother laughed. “Of course not bub. You are the only one who knows.” She stopped, thought and then added: “Or will know. Because as soon as you see them, you will see all the beautiful colours permeating everything around you. It’s an incredible feeling! And it will stay that way forever.” And her eyes shone so bright in a dreamy glint that I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her that for me, it wasn’t true. That I, for an unknown reason, could see colours and there had been neither a snow-white in a casket or a sleeping beauty in a thorny castle waiting for me to kiss them awake and look into their eyes. Therefore, I let my mother believe that one day, I would find my Rapunzel in a tower.

My ability of seeing colours became more prominent when I started going to school. At first, it was very amusing, seeing my classmates drawing trees with pink trunks and yellow leaves, or satisfying, when they wouldn’t use colours at all and only draw with a pencil. However, after a while it became very irritating. I started getting annoyed when my classmates left out the colours in their drawings, which would make them look dull and boring. On the other hand, seeing them use the wrong colours made my skin itch with irritation and I would bite my lower lip in distaste. At one point, I was so annoyed with a girl in my class that I pulled the wrong colour out of her grip and gave her the right one instead and then started lecturing her about how water could never be bright yellow. Honestly! What was she thinking, using colours so carelessly! That poor little girl was so traumatized that she started weeping and trying to apologize between sobs. At that point, Mrs Gardener, who had observed the whole commotion, came over and sat between us, calmly explaining that there was no reason she should apologize because she couldn’t possibly know. Instead, Mrs Gardener prompted me to say sorry and help her choose the right colour to finish the drawing. I did as I was told, contritely, and handed her the yellow colour.

I was held back after class. Mrs Gardener told me to sit down and motioned to the chair in front of her desk. Suddenly the woman in front of me looked very old and tired to me. It was on that day I became aware of the fact that, even though I could see colours, there were people who couldn’t. And Mrs Gardener was one of these people.

She was a very pretty woman, despite her age. She always put her chestnut coloured hair up in a very elegant bun, low by the neck. You could see that the dark roots of her hair were slowly turning grey. Her tanned skin had many laughter lines, which had become deeper with age. She had something soft and understanding in her features, so that I couldn’t feel too embarrassed of what had happened a mere two hours ago. “You know why I held you back right, Eli?” she said gently. I nodded. “But you’re a sensible boy, so I don’t need to lecture you for shouting at your classmates, even though you might be right.” She continued and I blushed, now feeling the after effect of guilt, mumbling an embarrassed apology. She smiled at me, kindness etched into her features and I knew I had been forgiven. She, of all people, seemed to understand the situation I was in the most. “How long have you been seeing colours Eli?” she then proceeded to ask. And at this question, I stopped short, my mind flooding with all sorts of questions. When did all this start? When did I realise that water looks blue? When did I realise that green is the colour of nature? But the question I asked myself the most was, why did I not know? Mrs Gardener watched me with a patience that could only be compared to one of a saint. She let my think this question through, not once interrupting my process so I could come to one conclusion: I didn’t know. So the only thing I could do was to shrug and hope Mrs Gardener understood. And of course, the gentle soul that she was, she did understand. “You are a very clever boy Eli.” she said, her tone light. “It only took me too long to realise that you could indeed see colours because you never consciously hid it. But you still treat that ability as a.”, she paused, trying to think of the right word to say. “A gift, of some sorts.” She then said emphatically. “Keep it that way, Eli. It’s a great gift fate has granted you.” I nodded politely, feeling flustered from receiving such important compliment from Mrs Gardener. And even though she seemed almost adamant when saying it, I couldn’t help but notice the underlying sadness that lingered in her insistent tone.

Needless to say that I got a call home from Mrs Gardener. My mother talked to her for a long time. After hanging up, she took me to bed, helped me get in my PJ’s and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Mrs Gardener told me what happened today in school.” She said. Her tone held no judgement. Only pure understanding. “She told me that you really like colours. So much even that you get upset when someone uses the wrong ones.” she laughed lightly. “That is so typical of you Eli.” She paused and stroked a hand over my hair. “I’m not angry with you, honey. On the contrary, I’m proud of you for speaking up. And, just like Mrs Gardener, I want you to follow your passion, Eli.” She kissed me goodnight and then turned off the nightlight, situated on my bedside table.

With that encouragement my love for colours only grew. In elementary school I would do extracurricular work, exercises like painting by numbers. By seventh grade I started doing colour charts, mixing colours, trying to combine as many different shades as possible, and trying to name them. My parents quickly caught on to my hobby and for my thirteenth birthday I got brushes, paint, an easel and canvases. My dad even cleared half of the garage and repurposed it into a studio, so that I wouldn’t stink up my room with colour and spray paint. By ninth grade I started copying paintings, mostly trying to make the different colours as accurate as possible and even refine the shades into even more detail. I would become engrossed in different painters and their eras, going to exhibitions in the local museums and art auctions. In my first year of high school they even let me paint the whole interior of the house to my own taste, with my own colour mixes.

I was 14 when the realisation hit me. Up until then, I only ever focused on my gift and what to do with it, totally forgetting to question where it had come from. It never really struck me until one day, when my best friend knocked at my door, which wasn’t unusual. She always came around after school. Somehow, when I opened the front door and saw her standing there, everything stopped for a moment. And I thought. All through this time, the only ever constant I had, outside of my family circle, was Carrie. My best friend, who had never once changed her opinion of me when I told her about the colours. Carrie, who always understood when I had one of my creative streaks and locked myself in the studio for weekends on end. Carrie, who appreciated my work, even when I doubted myself. And our friendship never changed. She was still the shy girl, who barely spoke, mostly only when prompted, with the blond hair and blue eyes and fair skin. The one who liked to walk or stand in the shallow water looking for new sorts of seashells. The one who always kept me on the ground, when a bully would call me a sissy, when I had presented one of my works in class. The one who even stayed with me when I started getting attention from other girls, but never got jealous. The one who sat with me through every inspirational slump, keeping me from getting overly frustrated with myself. We still went out together; meet on the beach on that spot we had claimed years ago, between the cord grasses on the right side of the flagpole. And I guess over the years I subconsciously developed a crush on her and maybe, I couldn’t know for sure, but I did let myself hope.

We were in our sophomore year in high school and I accidently I confessed my hopes to her. I had invited her over to my house to show her one of my newest works, which represented our usual hang out space. What she saw instead was a painting I had currently been working on, which showed two silhouettes in the shallow water, holding each other in a tight embrace. Underneath I had written: “Do you see the colours too?” In the most elegant handwriting I could manage. However, when I tried to explain it in a flush of embarrassment, she just kissed me and told me that, yes, she likes the painting and yes, she notices the colours too. Not as long as she could remember, but for the longest time now. I thought that this had been the happiest moment in my life.

I was living the best and perfect life. I lived in a big house in a safe neighbourhood, with parents that loved me dear and were always honest with my sister and me. They were supportive of every wish or decision we’ve ever had and always tried to make it possible. They taught me to be respectful and never to get discouraged, because everything happens for a reason. I was never disappointed, I never had to rebel or fight for my rights, because everything in our house could be subjected to discussion. And when I turned eighteen I graduated high school, got a scholarship for the university I wanted to attend, had the best girlfriend I could ever imagine and with whom I wanted to spend a romantic summer trip to New York with, where we would check out each of our colleges and then go sight-seeing. Until.

It was a hot and harsh summer day, a week after graduation. It was too warm to sit outside, but Carrie and I persisted and sat under the shadow of a fake palm tree by the beach, a bag of roasted peanuts opened between us, just having come out of the water, dripping wet but refreshed. We didn’t talk, just watched the sea throwing waves to the shore and every once in a while popping a salty roasted peanut in our mouths. The sea was building high waves, then proceed to crash them right at our feet, bathing our toes in cool, baby blue water. The tension was thick and heavy between us, but it could easily be mistaken for a normal heat wave.  “I think we have to talk.” She said, in a way I had never heard her speak before. If I had to describe it in a colour, it would have looked like strained pink going onto red...like a wound that was about to start bleeding. I smiled at her, trying to dissipate the uneasiness in her voice. “Then let’s talk.” I said in a patient manner, hoping this talk wouldn’t be as bad as she made it out to be.

*

As soon as I got home, I barricaded myself in my studio and didn’t come out for the rest of the night. I didn’t talk, I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream or throw things around. I didn’t paint. I just stood there and stared at an empty canvas. I had wanted to paint something that morning, before Carrie had come over and dragged me to the beach. I don’t even remember what I wanted to paint back then, but I think it was going to be something for Carrie. But it stayed empty for good. I was locked in that studio for a solid eight hours with no wink of sleep or inspiration. I was empty; staring at that canvas, hoping something would just jump out of me onto that paper. So that I could at least find something to distract me. And it didn’t. I just sat there and I stared. And stared. And stared. Eight hours. The sun set and lit the whole room in a fiery orange, the rays coming from my window facing west, where you can see the city being overshadowed by the setting sun, like the easel with the canvas on top were casting a dark shadow upon me.  Then the sun came up again from the east this time, where the opposite window shows the Atlantic coast, and painted the room in a bright pink. I never really liked pink. Not because it’s supposedly a ‘girls colour’. Because it’s a combination of the colours red and white. The most powerful colour versus emptiness. It shows that even the strongest and most powerful can be tamed into something obnoxiously soft and delicate. But the intensity with which the colour shone had me captivated. And I observed how the light filled up the white and gave the canvas a new background. Like a new perspective, another way to see things. I got up and tried to recreate the colour. It would be the last one that would look as perfect as it looks now.

When I came out of the studio, my whole family were sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. “Ah good, you’re awake.” My mother commented, taking a sip from her coffee. Then she tilted her head towards the empty chair next to my dad. “You must be hungry, sit down.” So I sat down and silence returned, while we all ate. I needn’t tell my parents what had happened, since they’ve most likely been informed by Carrie. “Carrie called, “My mother stated. “said, you guys have broken up.” I nodded and kept quiet. There was nothing else to say. Nothing else to add. My family didn’t press on the matter and switched the subject to the upcoming holiday. “Do you still want to go to New York?” my mother asked me. I shrugged. It was too late to cancel the B&B I had booked. And there was a College Orientation during that time I couldn’t miss. I nodded, keeping my gaze firmly set to the wooden tabletop.”I’m going to go alone.” I mumbled. My gaze still on the table. The brown oak seemed bland, overused, scraped, and slowly bleeding out of colour. There wasn’t much of a brown left on that table anyway. I wanted to tell my parents to oil it. I didn’t.

And ever since then, my sight of colours became gradually worse. It started out with little things. Things like the sky looking duller than the usual azure that greeted Boston in summer. I blamed it on my tiredness. Things like the green paint in my room seeming olive instead of the grass green I originally painted it in. I made a note of repainting the walls. Things like, a girl that I knew from school, with blue instead of originally ginger hair, which I explained with her dyeing her hair. I totally blocked little alterations out until that very moment, when my sister claimed that she’d just used the spray tan but the only colour I could see on her skin was a bright piggy pink. I wanted to cry.

*

Ian’s eyes light up in surprise when we meet on the campus of the Visual Arts College in New York. He tells me that he’d thought, with my talent, he’d meet me at the MoMA, where I’d have already sold out and not at some flimsy animation college his sister was studying at. I wanted to flee back to Boston into my studio and never come back. Ian and I’d grown up in the same neighbourhood but we were barely acquainted. He was tall and lanky and totally into Olympic disciplines he’d always needed when he had to run away from the big guys, because he’d annoyed them once too much. He did have something mischievous with his dirty blond hair standing up in all directions and his bright green eyes with golden specks and a childlike gleam in all of his looks that just seemed to scream for trouble. I didn’t see the gleam, nor could I see the golden specks, even though he stood a mere foot away from me. He’d had a girl pressed against his side that he introduced as Ally, his soul mate. He proceeded to ask about Carrie. I averted my gaze. I looked down to Ally. She had, what I only could suspect, brown hair but to my eyes, they looked gray. I couldn’t determine her skin tone because the only colour I could see was a pale green. The only thing I could say for a fact was her height. And she was tiny, pressed against a six-foot tall, lanky person like Ian. “Sick.” I ground out between clenched teeth. He laughed and then told me that, in case I was lonely tonight, I could join them. There was supposed to be a Visual Arts campus party, where I’d meet his sister too, since ‘I would study here anyways, why not have a little preview on the parties’. Ally insisted on me coming along, so I did. “We’re always happy to meet some talented freshmen.” she said with a broad smile. And for the second time that night I just wanted to flee.

Ian’s sister Cara was gorgeous. At least that’s what my alcohol induced brain made me believe when I met her later that night on the campus. She’d been making her way through the crowd when Ian pointed to her and slurred something akin to ‘this is my sister’. He had a good buzz going, from all the free drinks he’d gotten before I arrived. As soon as I had stepped on campus I’d been filled up with three ginger shots, a beer and two drinks of whatever had been in those red solo cups, even though they seemed more like pink to me, but that also could’ve been the blinking flashlights and colourful spotlights they had set up all over the place which were considerably dimming my inability to see the correct colours. I wasn’t drunk, but I knew that I was treading in dangerous territory of making a total drunk fool of myself. Cara was making her way up to us, but was stopped by people who seemed to know her well enough to hug her or kiss her on the cheek. When she finally arrived at the bench, that Ian, Ally and I had been leaning against for the past hour she immediately engulfed Ian in a bear hug and cooed something about ‘drunk baby brother’ and how she ‘loved him so, so much that little devil spawn’. Then she turned to Ally and gave her big kiss on the cheek that left a smeary lipstick stain. Ian just wanted to introduce me, when Cara let out a howl akin to a catcall. “Gosh, little Eli is not so little anymore, is he?” she crooned and gave me an eyeful. I blushed and then shrugged timidly. She just cooed and patted my cheek buoyantly. “Always the humble one.” She laughed and then leaned in conspiratorially. I could see a mischievous glint in her green eyes with golden specks, just like her brothers, and I felt like everything around me had become a bit brighter than a couple of seconds ago. I was totally convinced that it was because of Cara. Cara and her mischievous eye. Cara and her long, bright hair. Cara and her faint smell of Chanel mixed with alcohol and tobacco. I didn’t let my rational side tell me that it was the alcohol. Or the fact that someone might have turned up the lights. I just saw Cara. And I just wanted it to be her.

“Two little birdies told me that you are a very talented one.” She stage-whispered pointing over her shoulder to Ally and Ian who were now otherwise occupied. It took all of my willpower not to blush again, so that my mouth just let loose and I blurted “And you’re really pretty.” She laughed flippantly, so as if she’d heard this sentence a lot. I tried not to think of all the boys who had already tried their luck on her, as it made my skin crawl. “Come on Eli. Let’s leave those two slowpokes here to make-out with each other, while I introduce you to your new life also known as the Visual Arts School of New York!” She let out a ‘Woo!’, took me by the hand and dragged me into the crowd. I felt lightheaded from all the alcohol and all the feelings meshing within me.

Cara knew a lot of people. And I have to know at least half of them. And all of those people were nice. So, so very nice. They hugged me and said they’re happy to meet me, when Cara introduced me as ‘Eli, the master of colours! He knew them all before we even knew what colours were. It was a whirlwind of talking, drinking and dancing with Cara. At some point I was sure I didn’t even know what was happening. There were colours everywhere. Brown, green, yellow, and red. Blinking lights. A flash of what I only supposed were pink lips at the corner of my eye, when Cara shouted something to me over the loud music. I was overwhelmed and at the same time, I felt relaxed. I felt safe. I felt safe. I felt safe in way I hadn’t felt since I lost Carrie and I missed it dearly. Just like I missed Carrie. Gosh, Carrie was supposed to be here today. I dismissed the bitterness creeping into my heart. I was drunk and just didn’t want to care that night. So I fixed my gaze on Cara. And Cara was looking around, saying ‘Hi’ to people, dragging me through the crowd with her. She caught me staring and winked at me. Suddenly her eyes lit even more up. She looked at me with a bright expression, as if she’d just found the solution to cure world hunger. She stepped close to me and I could smell the ginger in her breath that fanned over my cheek while she whisper-shouted: “Eli, you genius! I just had an amazing idea!”

There were at least twenty people in Cara and Ally’s dorm. Light was provided by countless little candles that Cara had lit as soon as we stepped into the room, and the flickering lights of cigarette sticks lighting up with every drag. The air was full of smoke and music coming from the record player in the far-right corner of the room, and oldie from the sixties that everyone knew the lyrics to. I was standing in the middle of the room and held a half empty bottle of whatever some random person had pressed into my palm. Cara had rounded up some people from the campus party to come to her room, including Ian and Ally. The reason for it was that she wanted me to paint them all. She wanted me to paint them sitting around in the dorm, doing whatever they were doing at three in the morning. But especially, she wanted me to use colours that I felt, in that very moment, were right. In addition, I, in my drunk, dopey state had agreed to do so. So while I stood there Cara had brought a paper, brushes and paint and said, with an apologetic smile: “Unfortunately I don’t have an easel.”   I just shrugged so carelessly that I spilled some of whatever was in that bottle onto the floor. Cara giggled. “You’re a cute one.” I blushed and immediately set to work, because of my inability to say something adequate for this situation.

*

Waking up with a hangover is the worst. I regretted every single drink after the ginger shots and the beer. I felt awful, a tugging sensation in my stomach signalling that I had to get up, unless I wanted to mess up the carpet I was laying on. I then opened my eyes and realised that I was still in Cara’s dorm, on her floor, colour paint all over my shirt and face, dry paintbrushes in the pockets of my pants. I pushed myself in an upright sitting position, my hands propped up behind my back, were I felt a piece of paper. I grabbed it and immediately felt the bile rise in my throat. I held the “Three AM” painting in my hand and it looked horrible. I must’ve been proud in my drunken state though, because I could make out my signature on the bottom right corner. Mostly I graced paintings with my signature when I deemed them finished. Which this disgrace was far from. The strokes were messy, no clear lines were drawn, faces of people looked like bright blotches in a dark messy background. My drunk self didn’t even bother mixing the right colours together, so everything just looked like a big brown expanse of nothing. Just like I felt in that very moment. I couldn’t look at it for long, since I had to run over sleeping bodies on the floor, to search the bathroom, trying not to make more of a pathetic idiot of myself than I already was.

The bathroom wasn’t occupied and I was glad, because as soon as I bent over the toilet, the bile in my throat was let loose. I heaved, retched, and panted into the bowl, almost crying cause of the awful soreness in my throat, my stomach and most importantly, the pain I felt in my heart. When I was sure that I had emptied all the contents out of my stomach, I propped myself up on the toilet seat and took a deep breath. I raided the cabinets in hope of mouthwash and was happy when I found one still quite full. I rinsed my mouth and washed my face with cold water. Still feeling awful but more like myself, I stepped out of the bathroom and immediately crashed together with Cara, who probably was on her way to take a shower, judging by the towel wrapped securely around her chest. I stuttered out an apology but she only smiled at me tiredly and said: “First coffee and then talk.” And when I looked into her eyes, I realised that they were brown.

I fled. Without saying goodbye to neither Cara, Ally nor Ian, who was snoring away on the floor in the small space between the couch and the coffee table. I didn’t even bother writing a note. I couldn’t stay. How could I be so foolish, thinking that it could be Cara? I was drunk, for god’s sake. Drunk and lonely. Drunk and lonely and in need of a distraction from all the fading colours around me. I had been so naive to think that I would find my soul mate immediately. And I felt heartbroken. More than when I told Carrie that we couldn’t be together. More than the time, when I realised that the colours were fading. I was utterly heartbroken. The pain was so strong, I didn’t know how to handle it. It was something I was not accustomed to at all. And I wanted it to go away. So I had to something about it. I had to find my soul mate. Best before the school term started. I packed my bags and left New York earlier than intended. I fled. But this time with the intention to come back.

*

The idea of finding your soul mate sounds ridiculous, since one doesn’t really know anything about their soul mate except for the fact that their whole world lights up just by looking at them. And for me it was even more ridiculous because it could be anyone in this whole damn country, for I have met this person somehow, somewhere during a time I couldn’t remember, because fate decided it would be fun to make me look for him when my life had been at its best. The accusations were harsh, because in the end life would always turn out to be fine and I’d probably be happier with my soul mate than with anyone else in the world. But in this moment I just felt disappointed. Fate had given me a gift, a passion that I had worked with all my conscious life and when I was finally trying to make something out of this passion, as Mrs Gardener had suggested all those years ago, fate thought I wasn’t ready for it. It was taken from me and it frustrated me. It frustrated me to be reduced to something I hadn’t been before. I was seen as a person with potential, as someone special, the chosen one, a Wunderkind so to say. Now I was just like somebody, who’s trying to find love. To find love and feel fulfilled.      

My first attempt at finding my soul mate had me searching through our attic in hope of finding that old friends-book, where I had logged quite a lot of people during those years I’d been in possession of it. I concluded from living in the same place all my life that it must be one of the people in these books or someone who moved away when I was little. This book had them all reported. It took me half an hour of rummaging through boxes to find the blue dolphin themed notebook. I let out a happy sigh and immediately opened it up. On the first page I recognized my scrawny eleven-year-old writing. I turned the page and there was Amy, my little sister. On the third page was Carrie. “My best friend”, was written over her name in big bold letters that I recognized as mine. Melancholy hit me hard, reading through the lines she’d filled out and I grew teary eyed, when I read the line “What do I like about you?” and her answer was simply: “...that you like me.”

I had always suspected that Carrie hadn’t had the life anybody wished for. With her mom always being away because of work and her father dabbling in politics and doing whatever curious things he was doing in the shed in their backyard. She would barely invite me over, but when she did, she would act all awkward and distant and always steer me up into her tiny bedroom consisting of a tiny twin bed and a toy chest, that had later been replaced by a desk, that resembled more a badly repurposed coffee table than the actual desk. Her dad would sometimes call up in a harsh manner that he is off to work and that is literally the only interaction I ever had with him. My parents took Carrie in, just as if she was one of their own. With my parents’ love and devotion for her, she could at least pretend to have a normal life. That was probably also a reason, why she unconsciously sought out my presence and family. Because my family was normal. Because I had everything to offer that her parents didn’t. She’d become hung up on me. And I did the same. I always sought out to her because I knew I’d always have her. Her attention, her attraction, her admiration. All of her. She loved me with her whole heart and I needed that love to spark my inspiration.

In order to avoid more hurtful feelings towards to our friendship, I turned to the next page. Most of the people that wrote into the friend’s book, I didn’t even talk to anymore. It was just what life was. As a kid you get on well with a lot of people and count them as your friends. But you grow up and people change. Their interests start to differ from yours, their circles of friendship widen, they change, you change. There are kids in this friend’s book that moved away. People you’ve met once and then they left. Army brats. Rich kids. Poor kids. Kids with pets. Kids with allergies. And then there’s Rosie. The clever kid. She was always so attentive. She’d take one look and tell you exactly what you’d crave for dinner. She was candid, chatty, touchy and always full of surprises. We were both little when she moved in our neighbourhood from England and all through the years she would keep her British accent. She was consistent, that way. Stubborn, determined, always trying to prove a point.  And that’s what would make her get into lots of trouble at school. Mostly because she would talk back. We all knew she just wanted to help out. But our teachers were having none of it. Her father, a short man with blond hair going slowly going gray and soft features, never seemed to bother with punishments for Rosie, when she got in trouble. I would see him come to pick her up after school, and she would hand him the yellow paper slip, which he would look at and then smile softly at her, patting her short bright blonde hair. Something in his gaze always told me, that Rosie reminded him of someone who must’ve been very important to him a long time ago.

Rosie knew immediately that I could see colours. She never mentioned it though. Only once, when she invited me to her detective birthday party and I asked her what she’d wanted as a present. She’d leaned over to me and whispered in a very serious tone: “I want you to paint me something in your most favourite colours.” I was startled and sputtered: “How-wh-what do you want me to paint?” She giggled: “You were so obviously trying to hide it from the others, but I’ve seen your colour paintings in school! It’s so fascinating, finding someone who sees the colours so clearly!” She then looked at me with a fond sigh she said: “Of course I see colours, Eli. I learned it!” The look I must’ve given her must’ve been incredulous because she started laughing: “My godfather, he lives in Canada; he’s a very clever one. He taught me.” I was intrigued and just wanted to ask a question, when her father shouted for her to hurry up. She shouldered her backpack and smiled at me saying that she was looking forward to my present. Two days later she left. From what our teachers had told us, Rosie’s father had to go back to England and Rosie went to live with her godfather.

The Google results were more than satisfactory. I found Rosie Morstan immediately. And I realised that her cleverness hadn’t ceased. She was the top of her class, had studied at Harvard, finished with a master’s degree in forensic science by the age of seventeen and was now working for the Portland PD in Maine, as one of the youngest Scientists in America. I laughed. That could only be Rosie Morstan: know-it-all. Insatiable curiosity, always wanting more, trying everything to get it right. She had become pretty. Tall and slender, blond curly hair, lightly tanned, wearing smart clothes and thin gunmetal framed glasses. She looked intellectual. And very pretty. It took two hours and twenty minutes on the coach and half an hour of searching the Police Department in Portland until I was finally standing in the entrance hall, waiting for a receptionist, two days after I found Rosie in my friend’s book, in hope she might help me. I didn’t really know what help I was looking for, but I knew Rosie was clever. She might know. She will know. The receptionist was nice enough to let me pass after I stuttered out a highly dubious story about me being an old friend from university and looking for some help in a very-she interrupted me, indifferent tone audible, directing me to the second floor, Laboratory, Room 227.

Rosie wasn’t alone in the room, as I could see clearly visible from the glass window planted in the middle of the door. I knocked nevertheless. She looked up, catching my gaze, her whole face lighting up in surprise as she rushed to the door to open it and tugging me into a bone-crushing hug. She lets go of me, only her hands holding my shoulders at arms length. “Eli Morel!” she exclaimed cordially. “Thought I’d never see my favourite artist again! How are you? How’s Boston? Haven’t been there in a while-“She stopped. Her gaze became more observant. More scrutinizing. “Cole?”, she shouts, her gaze not wavering from mine. A man in scrubs rushes over, the blue of his ‘outfit’ starkly contrasting with his dark skin. “I trust that you can finish that dissection yourself, I’ll be back in an hour or so.” Cole nods, eyeing me up and down and then rushes over to the table again, while Rosie pushed me out of the room down to a little office. While she was getting rid of her scrubs and putting on her jacket, she talked about her current case, a murder of a man by his supposed soul mate who claims to have known nothing of this. “With this technique, we’re able to determine, if the dead person has been seeing colours at the time of death.” She explained while she was putting the second boot on and then grabbed her battered backpack. “Let’s go get coffee, here across the road of the PD.” And she walked out ahead, greeting the secretary in the foyer and stepping out into the sun.

The coffee was mediocre at best but the cafe was cosy and not too busy, when we had stepped in. We ordered one coffee each at the bar and sat down in a boot in the corner. Then she started talking. “You’re lost.” She stated, after a sip of coffee. I shrugged, not knowing what else to say. I had known exactly that Rosie had seen right through me, from the first moment she had laid her eyes on me. “Was it Carrie?” she asks and I laugh bitterly. “I wish it had been Carrie. And Carrie had wished the same.” She nodded. “And now? With no knowledge of your real soul mate, you lost the ability to see colours. Right?” I nodded again. “I was hoping I would find her in my friendship book.” I admitted. “Then I stumbled over your page.” “And you hoped that I could help you out.” A long silence settled in which we both sipped our coffee. “It has to be someone from your past.” She suddenly said and looked at me. “I already tried that.” I mumbled, sadly. “It only led to heartbreak.” She scoffed. “As if Carrie is the only person from your childhood.” I realised in that moment, that her accent hadn’t changed one bit. She still had that infamous British dry humour. I looked over to her. “You said that you could see colours too.” I said, remembering the conversation before she had left for Canada. She smiled bitterly. Indignantly. “Yeah. My godfather taught me, when I was little. But he had neglected to tell me that he only taught me to determine colours from their black and white shades.” I spluttered out an incredulous laugh. “He did what?” She nodded darkly. “Betrayed me. I had to learn later on, when I met my father’s new wife, what seeing colours actually meant.” She looked defeated. Sad. I could only guess the residual anger in her in eyes. Her pretty green eyes. They looked so clear. I put my hand on her shoulder. She looked over to me. “Not that I fell in love with my dad’s new wife, mind you. I had lost a very good friend in that time.  That time when I had to move to bloody Canada, because this stupid woman wanted to go back to England. And my stupid father went with her, left me with my godfather.  Actually he’d been more of a father for me than my real one anyway.” She sighed. “He came back. Later. When we moved here. My godfather kicked him out. Told him never to come back again.” She laughed dispassionately. And that was it. This was the turning point.

In that moment I felt her betrayal. I felt the residual anger, the disappointment and the grudge towards a person she’d trusted. Two people. “What’s with that person you lost back then?”, I asked genuinely curious. Her pale face contorted into something like exasperation that made her freckles pop out even brighter than I they already were. The crinkles by her eyes throwing dark shades on her high cheekbones, when she squinted her eyes at me in a disbelieving gaze. “I am honestly baffled by your horrible obliviousness.”, she exclaimed. “Look at you! So vacant! Is it nice not being me?” She sighs wantonly. “It must be so relaxing.” And then she leaned over, braced her hands on my shoulders, and put her lips on mine. It wasn’t brief. Nor was it wet, or worse: disgusting.  It was a kiss. No spark, no flame, no fluttering heart. Just a touch of her thin, soft lips on mine. Unconsciously, my hands had found a place on her waist. I squeezed the soft cotton lightly and broke the contact. Her eyes were wide, a shade of grey cast over her irises a faint blush of baby blue high on her cheeks and I knew immediately: That was bad. That was not only bad, it was totally inconvenient. I didn’t even know how all of this could have happened. Why all of this had happened. I had never seen Rosie as that type of person. I had never suspected her liking me. And I felt puzzled. How could she-? Then it dawned on me. As a kid, thinking you could see colours was immediately connected to the person you liked and Rosie, thinking she could see colours, thought I had been her soul mate. And I guess that crush never really left, although she knew she didn’t really see the colours with me. She seemed to have gotten it too, casting her eyes down, grabbing her bag, throwing it over one shoulder and murmuring, “I’m so sorry.” Then she rushed out of the coffee shop, crossed the road and disappeared into the old building of the Police Department, that couldn’t have possibly had a bright yellow facade. I followed this whole commotion with a dazed gaze.

The dazed look stayed while I proceeded to bide my time, by walking aimlessly around in the City in hope of a very welcome distraction. However, everywhere I looked, reminded me of what had happened in that coffee shop. Buildings that had impossible colours, people with impossible skin-tones, or eye colours, even road signs with impossibly neon green markings.

I somehow ended up at a bar. It was a tiny bar somewhere in the dumps of the big bumbling city. I didn’t even remember how that had happened. There were barely any people in that bar. The bartender was a huge man in his late fifties, with long hair and a long beard. He had tattoos all up and down his arm that moved in a gentle rocking sensation, as he was drying a beer glass with a brown towel, while an underage looking boy, who was miserably failing even to get a beer out of this man, was chatting him up. He just shook his head and told him, he’d give him any soda on the menu for free if he’d just stop asking for anything alcoholic. The guy, short buzzed hair, dark skin and shorter than me, rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath that sounded Spanish. A Latino then. He sighed and then asked for a coke. The bartender smiled at him condescendingly as he shoved a tall glass full of soda towards that guy, who grudgingly handed him a five dollar bill, that the old man took, while he put down the beer glass he was rubbing dry and then moved over to the checkout, where I was standing, waiting my turn. I didn’t even bother to act all manly, because I was underage and it was obvious. So I ordered a ginger ale. The bartender looked me over and then said: “You sure you don’t need a dry gin, son?” I shook my head tiredly and handed him my ID. He scoffed, without even sparing a glance at the card in front of him. “I knew you were a greenie when you entered this room, you just seem to need a bit more than a ginger ale.” I sighed and shook my head again, taking the bottle and laying the bright blue five-dollar bill on the counter. “Jus’ a little refreshment.” I sighed and took a sip. I let my gaze wander around the bar. There were people scattered all through the boots. Some huddled over a glass, some eating, a girl with blinding pink hair was sitting in the corner reading a smart looking book. It was quiet save for the music, softly sounding through the stereo.

Soon enough the bar started filling up. Men in suits out for an after work beer, regulars that greeted Frank  the bartender, couples that went out for a date, girlfriends, boyfriends. People, so many, you could get lost in them. I was still sitting on that barstool. Another bottle of ginger ale in front of me. The music got gradually louder, people shouting requests at Frank, who obliged happily and then turned to tend the people waiting for another drink. The Latino was long gone, probably mingling in the crowd. I had been set on leaving an hour ago. But I felt comfortable there. In that bar, my elbows propped on the counter, my head laid in my palms, my eyes downcast or wandering around. Suddenly a song started playing loudly over the speakers and people started shouting. I scarcely heard someone naming the song. A-ha. Something I was familiar with. I looked over to the commotion the song had caused in the free space between the booths, where people were moving. The people that knew the lyrics (a surprising lot) sang the verse. Just when the pre-chorus started a body brushed against mine, almost pushing me out of my seat. Then I heard a tipsy voice chirp, “Sorry!” and a wuzz of curls appeared on my left side. A rather short girl with an afro heaved her upper body onto the counter and stretched out her arm, waving a bundle of bills with her left hand towards Frank, who was busy serving other guests, probably having the same request. She seemed to have caught my gaze, because she shot me a dirty look. “What?! I am of age, you dumbass.” I was taken aback. I had had no doubt that this girl was older than me, save for her height. Nevertheless, that didn’t seem to bother her at all, since she was still lying on top of the counter, her short legs dangling in the air. “No doubt.” I said and tried for an apologetic smile but seemed to have failed miserably, since her expression softened. Frank turned towards her and asked for her orders. “Give me...” she stopped, pulling herself upright, “give me...” She resolved in a thinking hum. Then she lit up. “Give me... two Bacardi Cokes.” She said and gave me a once over with something akin to interest in her eyes. “Someone needs to chase his shadows away.” I immediately wanted to decline but she sent me a glare that just said, It’s just a drink.

Two Bacardi Cokes and a dry gin later, I was on the makeshift dance floor, trying not to make a complete fool out of myself. However, Billie, who was just as intoxicated as me, moved clumsily towards me, took me by the hands and guided me to the rhythm of an old ABBA Song, I didn’t really know back then. Billie, a twenty-three year old music student, part time music shopkeeper, and professional singer was singing along. Her lips, clad in dark lipstick formed the words in an almost obscene way when the chorus started and she sung in full volume “Voulez-vouz?” and looked into my eyes with a mischievous glint in her dark ones, her hair tickling my chest and throat when she moved closer towards me, her arms wrapping around my neck her body warm and solid against mine and I suddenly understood the question. I finally got her advances, why she had bought me drinks. I knew what would come next. And I also knew I was too tired, drunk, resigned, needy –too anything- to deny her request. Her eyes never left mine, the melody subsiding, changing into another song with a strong bass-line and she licked her lips in a seductive manner. And I just leaned down and kissed her.

*

The bus station was full of students going home for the weekend on a Saturday morning at seven am and I felt just the same as they did. Hung over, exhausted, just waiting to get home and feel the comfort of your own room and a hug from your mother: warm, familiar, loving. Billie had still been sleeping when I left. At least, this time I remembered writing a little note saying that I was sorry, and that I hoped I hadn’t done anything wrong and that I had a good night. But I didn’t bother writing down my number or address. I had been looking for any sort of distraction last night. And she just conveniently had been there. Nothing more and nothing less. I hadn’t thought about this idea at all that night until I had met Billie. Even then it took me three drinks and ten songs to get the gist. I just didn’t understand why it felt like there had been a huge hole stamped in my chest. There, where my heart was supposed to be. And this hole was oozing guilt. Confusion. Anger. Despair. And just like all the other hung over students, I slept the whole way to Boston. Because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. Because I had given up on my search even before it had started. Because life just didn’t begin until you were in. Until you accepted your fate. And I finally did understand.

*

Fate did mean well with me, prompting my decision to move to New York two weeks before the term started, so I could make myself feel a bit more home. Summer job done, garage studio packed and tidied up and I had spent a week with my Grandparents in Virginia. The rest of the time, I spent by the beach doing nothing at all. This whole journey had exhausted me so hard, emotionally and physically, that I needed a good times rest. The only thing I had yet to do was to clear my room. Getting rid of the old and unnecessary stuff, packing the things I held dear. I pushed it out to the last minute for only one reason. I hated getting rid of stuff I didn’t need any more but remembered how much I liked it when I had gotten it. Like a little box full of minerals in different colours, each representing another approach in life. The wooden box was labelled “soul stones”. I had no need for them anymore. However, looking through them one more time was like going back in time, remembering all the times I had worn one of these stones as a lucky charm in the pockets of my pants or jacket, feeling the cool, smooth, soothing surface of the stone in the palm of my hand whenever I had felt anxious. Or the little Harry Potter figurine I had won in a children’s auction betting full five Dollars on it. My mother had almost killed me when she found out. Or the little Blue Time Machine that I had made in a handicraft class, because I was so obsessed with the show it belonged to. All these little knick knacks that just didn’t define me anymore but held so much meaning.

While I was rummaging through my stuff, really trying to throw these things out I hadn’t spared a glance at in ages I came over a stack of books. Kid’s books, mixed with thrillers, novels, sticker books and teen magazines. I started looking through them, putting those away I didn’t need, others that I thought my sister would like and some of them that I wanted to take with me to re-read them. And as I was scanning through the stack, I came across a book looking a bit different from the others. It had a pastel purple book cover with teddy bear stickers strewn across the page. The title was written in dark purple curvy letters saying: “My first journey!”  Then I realised that this was a photo album. I turned the title to the first page. And I immediately recognized the elegant writing of my mother filling in the blank space next to “Where did we go to?” with “Chicago” and then the year of the visit. I must’ve been only three years old then, considering the following pictures were made in springtime and I hadn’t had my fourth birthday yet. The pictures were simple, family pictures, me holding my baby sister in my lap smiling toothily at the camera, me padding around the hotel room with crayons in my pudgy hands, me on the playground, sitting in a sandbox, intent on making a sandcastle, my tongue stuck out in concentration and, sat right next to me, a girl in a purple dress, trying to help me with the castle. I turned the page again and there she was again. This time it was a picture of the two of us, my arms wrapped around her tiny shoulders, holding her in a sideways hug. I must have been in the middle of saying something, when my mother had taken the photo. The little girl just grinned with a blush adorning her chubby cheeks one arm disappearing behind my back. On the following picture I was kissing her cheek, my eyes squeezed shut and my arms still around her shoulders, while she was in the middle of a laugh, her eyes wide in surprise. Below that snapshot I found a couple of scribbled words. I deciphered the first line as what I only suspected to be her name: Nora Jones. My mother must’ve accidently spilled something over the corner of that page because the rest of the note was indecipherable. I groaned in frustration, just when my mother decided to come and check up on my packing. “What did you find there?”, she asked, coffee mug between her hands and then sat next to me. Her face lit up in realisation. “Oh, little Nora!” she exclaimed. “You were absolutely smitten, even though you had just met her. I remember you loudly proclaiming to her, that one day you would find her, slay a dragon and marry her.” She laughed. “Then you kissed her cheek, like the little romantic you were.”I looked at her, brow furrowed in concentration. “Mom-“ I started but stopped myself, shaking my head.

I wouldn’t let myself hope. I had said the same thing about Carrie too. I had let myself hope and it had ended with her lying to me. “I think you should know that I haven’t totally been honest with you.”, she had said that fateful afternoon. The sun shone mercilessly onto our heads. “And I think I should apologise in advance for that. I should’ve talked to you about this earlier. I just didn’t know how.” I had been confused. Why should she apologise?  She hadn’t done anything that I would deem bad. “I don’t know what you mean.” I said for the lack of better words. She took another deep breath, had detached her gaze from the horizon and had immediately fixed me with a determined look. “Ever since I’ve got to know you, you showered me with love and attention. Something I’d barely feel when I was at home. You gave me everything I needed: peace, time, support and help whenever I needed it. You put me before yourself, even when you were struggling with things yourself. You gave me a sense of security and shelter. And taking that all in...Well I guess it gave me the ability to perceive certain colours; the ones you call primary colours. Red, blue, yellow and green.” She had looked at me with an unsure glance. I had totally been thrown out of my depth. For some reason I had wanted to argue that green wasn’t a primary colour. However, nothing had come out of my mouth. I hadn’t understood. “So you...” I looked at her with a dubious gaze, only now catching up with everything she’d said. “Don’t see colours?” And she nodded her head; her cheeks had flared up in an embarrassed crimson red. I had been appalled. “That means-“I had stuttered out a couple of incoherent words before settling with, “not my soul mate?” She had just shrugged: “I mean... it was always kind of obvious that I’m not your soul mate. But you love me none the less. And I love you. We were meant for each other, weren’t we? From the beginning to the end: Eli and Carrie. And we can work around the whole seeing colours thing, can’t we? It’s also not uncommon for people not to get together with their soul mate, I read-“And on that point I had had to interrupt her and had asked in an almost hysterical voice: “So you don’t want to find your soul mate?” She laughed, probably a bit too bubbly for a situation like this one. “Do I have to, when I got you? Don’t you see? I would even give up seeing colours, just to be with you!” And that had been the breaking point. I had freaked out. I had leapt to my feet and had taken a good couple of steps away from her. I was frantically shaking my head while continuously murmuring: “No, no, not true...”

Her happy expression had morphed into a worried one, as she slowly had pushed herself up out of the sand. “Eli, what’s wrong?” she asked in an uncertain tone, taking a tentative step towards me. I stepped away, stopped shaking my head, blinked. “Please tell me you’re joking.” I demanded. Her eyebrows furrowed.  “I’m dead serious Eli. Why would you need a random person to walk into your life, proclaiming to be the right one for you, just because you both see colours, when you could easily just have someone who’s been there for you all your life? Why is it so important for you?” A hysterical sound emitted through my lips,  deep from within me. “Why, you ask? Why is it -“I sighed harshly, turning my head away from her. “All my life has been about colours Carrie. Even as a child I wouldn’t stop thinking about colours! I have been working with colours since I was eleven years old! In September I will be studying colours and their effects in movies in New York! And you are asking me why-“Blood red anger was coursing through my veins. I had needed to leave. “I think I have to go.” I had to leave this place. “I’ll call you later.” I lied. I had picked up my towel and the little duffle bag with art supplies that I always had with me and left.

And now there was this little girl (she probably wasn’t that little anymore), to whom I had proclaimed my love for with only three years of age. It made sense. I couldn’t remember anything of that fateful meeting but the colours had been there. I could be wrong and I had just been born with the ability to see colours, because fate wanted me to. My mother who was sitting patiently alongside me, waiting for me to wake up from my reverie just gave me an encouraging nod. “Go Eli. Do whatever that brilliant head of yours just thought of. Fate has a funny way of leading us into the right direction. We just have to listen to it.”

*

Imagine a perfectly dramatic scene. Imagine a mild breeze, dark clouds and an occasional dark rumble of a distant thunder. It’s still hot outside, the humid air charged with some sort of familiar tension. A tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. A tension that only needs a snap of the fingers to set off a life changing chain of events. A tension that makes crawl out of your skin. Imagine a six-foot tall, scruffy looking guy standing in front of your school, located in one of the smaller outskirts of Chicago. Imagine the kids on the schoolyard shooting careful, wary glances towards him. Fearful, he might pull out a gun at any moment. Imagine the weird looks they’re sending him. There’s no person brave enough to go up to him. No person kind enough to offer help. They just cast sideway glances at him, walk past him, trying to ignore this overpowering presence standing in their schoolyard. Standing in my schoolyard.

Now imagine walking out of the school into the schoolyard and he sees you. He looks at you and he stumbles over to you, something similar like relief lighting up in his eyes. He looks like he might faint from exhaustion, his face pale, his eyes sunken in and his limbs shaking. He looks like he is taking his last steps towards you, barely holding him together. Then he puts his hands on your shoulders and shakily sighs something like “finally”, as he sags into a kneeling position and starts crying. In that moment you are faced with a decision: Either you walk away and let the boy lying on the floor hoping the janitor finds him and calls an ambulance or- you help him up.

 This is where I was standing. I am Nora Jones and I have a decision to make. Either I went with Mila, who was waiting for me a few steps away; sending me sharp looks saying ‘leave it be!’ The girls of my class had already started whispering, there were various kids holding their phone cameras towards the commotion and giggle ‘this is going viral!’ Tommy was walking out of the school, his eyes fixing mine with a confused expression asking: “Do you know this guy?” The wind was picking up, slowly but surely. Or I stayed. The wind didn’t deter the people around me. It didn’t deter me either, because I had someone holding me down. Someone that kept me grounded. Literally. I looked down to the shaking figure below me. From somewhere deep within me surfaced, or dare me say resurfaced this odd feeling of clarity, like something clicking into place and I couldn’t exactly place what. But when I looked up again, I saw them, the colours.

They faded away for a fraction of a second into a black and white filter before their sudden brightness hit me. In that exact moment it started raining. Those fat, heavy raindrops that soaked you to the bone fell from the grey clouds that had become so dark, they seemed dark green; the dusty pavement cleared up to leaden colour and became a contrast to my piercing red backpack to my right. It was like a sensory overload. Suddenly I had a clear vision, as if the rain rinsed this film away from my eyes that had been blinding me for more than a decade now. I heard the rain rushing, I heard the people around me chattering as they opened their umbrellas or pulled up the hoods of their raincoats. I heard the words ‘creepy’ and ‘wet’ and the question ‘what is going on?’ I could faintly hear someone saying my name. I felt the arms around my calves and the warmth they were spreading through my body. Then I felt a tugging sensation on my shoulders and I couldn’t help but pull away from it, feeling like it burns. I feel the tugging again and I pull away again harder. I want to scream at the pulling sensation to stop, to let me have this because for the first time in forever I feel:  I feel every movement around me, every inhale I take in, every exhale I emit, every muscle twitching; I feel everything.  And as soon as I had that thought, the pulling stopped.

I look down again. I don’t know what it is, but the look of this shaking figure makes my heart clench so tight that I fear I might stop breathing at any given moment. And just then, I make the decision.

The whole place becomes quiet, only the overly deafening sound of pouring rain interrupts the silence,  as I step out of the arms encircling my legs and crouch down to the lump of a person in front of me. I push him up by the shoulders, forcing him to look at me. I see a pair of red-rimmed chestnut coloured eyes with a faint golden ring encircling the iris. His eyes are glazed over, unfocused as if he doesn’t know what is happening. For some reason I fear this boy won’t survive if I don’t get him somewhere safe. Somewhere away from the prying eyes and camera flashes. He realizes I’m looking at him his gaze clears up a little and he offers me an apologetic look. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something but I interrupt him by silently mumbling “Let’s get you away from here alright?” before helping him up by supporting him by the elbow and then putting his arm around my shoulders, letting him lean his whole body weight on me, slowly dragging him towards the exit of the schoolyard. When I walk past Mila I shoot her an apologetic look, mouthing ‘talk to you later’. I feel camera flashes go off behind my back and people conversing in a hushed tone. I concentrate on the path, trying not to get distracted by all the colours screaming at me to look at them.

When I arrive at the road I stop for a moment, calculating the closest way to the A&E, I realize the boy next to me shifts and then looks directly at me, his eyes containing a little bit more focus now. “Can we go to a coffee shop near here?” he asks. I look at him doubtfully, wanting to tell him, I’d rather bring him to the hospital, when he adds: “I just need to talk to you. Please.” He looks at me with full sincerity in his eyes and I stop in my tracks. I don’t know what to think or say. I can’t get myself to refuse. To step away from him and shout at him: ‘No, stop! You’re weird! I just want to get you to the hospital, you’re confusing me!’ like every sane person would do in this situation. But my past records show I’ve not really been sane in the first place, have I? So I smile at him and nod. “Let’s go then.”

It’s only a two-minute walk to the nearest park, which is now wiped out empty due to the bad weather. We walk on the gravelly path towards the centre of the park, the big leaves of the oaks and plane trees that line the path, shield our already soaked bodies from getting even wetter. It’s silent again. The air around us has become a pungent smell of wet grass and dust from the gravel below us. We walk freely again, him having untangled himself just as we arrived at the park, claiming he was fine; that he could walk.

Ever since then, neither one of us found it necessary to say anything. In those long moments of silence I try to take in all those glowing colours around me: The penetrating green from the leaves above and the grass beneath me suddenly have so many different shades of the same colour. The leaves of the oak a dark, shiny green and although they are small, they seem to be very sturdy and thus holding up the raindrops pretty well, whereas the leaves of the plane-tree are frail and coloured in a pale green, the veins in a prominent brownish colour, letting some raindrops trough. While walking I try to make out if the green of each grass blade is the same, but I’m not close enough to see the details. There are so many more colours I want to look closer at, like the bark on the trees, the white of my soaked converse, the unique colour of every single gravel I step on. Yet all the colours’ intensity seems to emit from one source, which is placed right next to me and I just don’t understand, how a person can radiate colour with such strong intensity unless-

I was pulled out of my thought when we arrive at the end of the path and now stand in front of a clearing, which is divided into a playground with a little additional meadow, a skate-park whose half-pipes are filled with rows of colourful graffiti and a soccer field with dark, almost rotten, wooden posts marking each goal. The line of trees has stopped; we’re standing in an open space. Just as I want to start walking towards the skater park, he stops, looks around and says: “It’s sad, how people don’t enjoy the rain as much as the sun.”

I turn my head to the right and for the first time, I really take my time to look at this boy. Well, he’s not necessarily a boy anymore. His dark skin complexion contrasts his soft bone structure of the jaw, framed by his scruffy dark locks that are tucked behind his ears falling down to his neck. I let my gaze roam around his face but stop at his eyes; Endless pits of the blackest pupils surrounded by a dark, chestnut coloured brown with a small hint of red, that radiate warmth and maturity, the red undertone giving it an adventurous, youthful glint. It was like looking into the depths of a wishing well and never seeing the water, though you heard the coin drop into it seconds ago. They seemed to radiate all the blinding saturation that surrounded us, like a golden glow streaming out of his pitch-black pupils and permeating every object around us, making it brighter than before, clearer than before. No misplaced colours, no pastel colours on neon lights, no pink lines as demarcation on a soccer field, no yellow, purple or neon orange coloured eyes, no green noses, ears or fingertips and  no avatar blue coloured skin. Everything has just fallen into its rightful place and I utter a breathless “Yeah.”

He steps closer, warm breath fanning my nose when he asks, “What’s your name?”

And in that moment everything crashes. He is a stranger. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know me the way my closest friends know me. He doesn’t know how I look in the morning, when I look into the mirror, with my blond dyed hair that looks army green one day and pearly white the other, with my rather rosy skin complexion and my almond-shaped eyes that some days look gray like the pavement and other days like a cloudless summer sky; With my long legs and slender arms, and how my usually straight posture sags when I sit cross-legged on the ground. He doesn’t know that sometimes on Sunday I like to lie in my bed and stare at the wall, questioning my entire existence or sit amidst dusty boxes in our attic and look at photo albums, whose pages are older than I can imagine. That how sometimes I like to dress up, wear a cocktail dress with net stockings and the next day I go out with baggy pants and a hood. He doesn’t know my name and how sometimes I despise it and sometimes I’m so proud of owning it that I want to scream it from the top of a mountain and shout it at my reflection instead. He’s a stranger. And for god’s sake, I would go crazy if he didn’t know my name. So I tell him: “I’m Nora.”

And for a moment there, surprise flashes through his features. And then it’s gone again and he takes a step back. Just then all the air I held inside me comes rushing out of my mouth in a shuddery sigh. I have to get a grip on myself again. Never has anyone ever made me feel so tumultuous and exhausted at the same time. It’s like a thousand bees buzzing in your stomach, making your whole body shake uncontrollably. It’s like throwing up a thousand times and feeling a sweet aftertaste in your mouth. It’s weird. It’s right.

I ask him about his name. “Eli.” He says. “Eli Morel.” The name instantly takes up a colour in my mind. It’s like his whole name is drenched in brown. A brown that looks like hot cocoa on a cold winter day. Like a knitted pastel coloured blanket that warms you from the inside. Like the sturdy bark of a tree you lean against in the summer, with hearty and dust covered roots that keep you grounded. I decide to research the origin of his name later.

“So, are we just going to stand here at the crossroads and get drenched?” he says after looking around. His eyes shine with mischief and genuine curiosity, a lopsided smirk pulling at the corners of his dusty pink lips.  I shake my head, still caught up in some sort of trance and point to the skate park. “We’ve to go that way.” I say and start walking. He easily falls into step with me, staying so close, that I can feel the warmth radiating from the back of his hand onto mine. For a moment I think about touching it. Just a little brush of our knuckles. Just as I want to pull away, he encircles my wrist with his thumb and pointer finger. It’s a light touch, almost as if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Still it shoots electric shocks up my arm and right through my heart, making it skip a beat every once in a while. I can’t bring myself to pull away, so I keep my hand right where it is, swinging it lightly back and forth.

We cross the skate park, listening to the little rivers of rainwater rushing down the half and quarter-pipes, taking in all the flashy spray paintings on the walls. I take him to the end of the place, out of the park, a turn left, a small walk down the road. ‘The little shack’ used to be a real shack that had occupied the parks equipment, but after repeated theft, they decided to store the equipment in another place. It stayed empty for a while, until a group of students repurposed it into a coffee shop, the typical hang out spot for college students. At the moment it was especially empty, because everyone was studying for the finals. I pulled him towards the coffee shop and as soon as we were inside, I realised how cold the temperature outside had become. So I pulled out two blankets from the little stand next to the entrance and turned towards Eli. “Take off your jacket and put this around yourself.” Then I pointed to the cushioned booth in the far right corner of the cafe. “Take a seat, I’ll get the coffee.” I saw that he wanted to object but I just shoved the blanket into his arms, pushing him towards the corner booth. So while Eli was situating in the shack, I went up to the counter, ordering two coffees. I looked back, to where Eli was sitting seeing him looking at me with something like curiosity in his eyes. I didn’t know what to do, when I caught his gaze so I just smiled a little sheepishly. He smiled right back and if I didn’t know better I would have thought my heart stopped for a fraction of a second. His smile was like a flash going off in the dark, over saturating every colour in the room. This whole situation felt so light and sticky like cotton candy pressed against the top of my mouth. It made me believe that even the hottest coffee couldn’t burn my tongue.

The bartender put the two coffees on the counter, flashing me a smug smile. “Coffee for dates is always on the house.” She chirps happily, winking at me. I take the mugs with a bashful expression and try to object. “We’re not-“ I start explaining but stop myself, taking a quick sip to mask my embarrassment and immediately burn my tongue. “Smells very sweet.” I  say nonchalantly, before deciding that I’ve made a fool of myself enough, taking the mugs and leaving. I sit down right in front of him; one leg crossed under the other one, and grab the navy blue blanket lying around. The atmosphere has settled to something more peaceful. The rain tapping against the iron rooftop over us, the smell of sweet coffee, the dark colours of the wood and blankets exuding a calming vibe. No tension, no electricity crackling, the air around us drying off, the heat from earlier having faded into agreeable warmth. Even Eli looks more human to me now. He even gained a little more colour in his features, his eyes not looking swollen anymore, his cheeks dusted with a darker shade than his skin colour, his posture totally relaxed, his hands no longer shaking. I remember him begging to talk to me, I remember him shaking and sobbing at my feet. I want to know what made him feel so distraught. Where did he come from? Why was he looking for me?

I want to ask him, when he says: “I’m sorry for attacking you like that earlier. I am just so relieved I found you.” He looks embarrassed for a second before adding: “I’m glad you trusted me enough to let me talk to you.” I nod, not really knowing what to say. “You must have a lot of questions.” He says then looks away, sighing. “And I honestly don’t know where to start.” I frown, not really understanding what he means. “It’s just- there’s a whole story behind this. Behind me behaving like this, looking like this.” He takes a deep breath before continuing: “I’ve gone to great lengths to arrive here and looking at your face... it made-“he chuckles breathlessly as if he couldn’t believe what he’s about to say-“it made this whole journey so worth it. I see them Nora, I see them thanks to you! I see all the colours around me and they are not confusing me anymore! And they are so very bright. And-“he stops again and fixes my eyes with a deep gaze. I see his dark pupils dilate, almost hiding the chestnut coloured iris. And the glow. Oh, this golden glow pouring out of his pupils, making me so dizzy. So very dizzy. “- they seem to come from your eyes. It’s like golden pixie dust.” He murmurs absently. Then he snaps out of it. Out of this gaze, that kept me fixed, kept me so on edge. I feel myself relax again. “I must sound so crazy right now but it’s-“And for the first time I interrupt him. “I know.”

Two simple words and yet they mean so much. His perplexed expression morphs into surprise. “You...” he tries to grasp for words but just moves his mouth like a fish. Open. Close. Open.”Pixie dust everywhere.” I say, not really knowing how to put it in words. I’m not a great talker. I used to be, but when the colours started fading, I became self-conscious.  I had never made something out of the colours, never taken advantage of my ability. I was okay with seeing them; never questioning the gift fate had given me, thinking I wouldn’t necessarily need a soul mate to see them. But then gradually everyone around me would start seeing colours upon meeting their soul mates. My friends would all talk about how happy they were, now that they could see colours. I started detaching myself from them. I had nothing in common with them. The colours faded. Suddenly skies were green, grass was blue, and water was pink.

I want to tell him everything. I want him to know why it’s so hard to express myself. How I had to learn to school my emotions, so I wouldn’t have to explain my distaste. My fear. My loneliness. But I said: “I see them better. Brighter. Clearer.” He nods excitedly as if to say, go on, I’m listening. And I take up my whole courage and say, “I feel the same. But I want to know why.” I let my eyes wander over him. Hair, face, chest, arms and hands holding the coffee mug. “You seem to know.”

He laughs breathlessly. “It’s a long story.” I shrug. “We’ve got time. There’s no one stopping you.” He sends me a look that I can’t decipher. And then he starts.

*

I don’t know for how long I have been sitting there and listening to this, frankly unbelievable, story if it wouldn’t have been for the colours. For the way he felt when he had lost them. Desperate. Angry. Resigned. Burgundy. Blood red. Pale Blue. And I myself became quite agitated with the way he perceived this whole affair. It was all about being able to see colours again. It was all about his passion. About fulfilling the need to study colours. Everything was revolving around him. Where was I in that equation? Where had Carrie been? That poor girl just wanted to be loved! This whole hunt wasn’t about slaying a dragon and saving the princess and a happily ever after. He seemed to have noticed my agitation and that I wasn’t really listening to him. So he stops, looks me over and then asks: “You alright?”