Black was the color of all his shirts, his socks, his underwear. His bags, his jackets, his shoes. Jet-black hair, deep black eyes, dark brows, deep, dark thoughts.
Color, they said, his life needed it. But he was perfectly content with black, with himself, with life as he knew it. A splash of color here and there were alright, but always, he’d go back to black, to nothing, to lightness and drifting.
At night, he’d lie in bed in the dark, close his eyes and drift off. His dreams were real, palpable. He was one who found he could weave fantasy and fact together, and still have his spirit soar with emotion. Tangible, solid, fact.
She likes everything. When she was a child, she loved orange. Not because she loved the fruit it was named after (or was the color named after the fruit? She’d have to remember to look that up)—in fact, she hated it. It was a color fewer people loved, a color that took the backseat to the reds and yellows and pinks and blues. While other children pretended to be Power Rangers, she had orange.
Later on, she moved to red, on a much darker phase of her life. Not just any red either, but a deep, dark red that others could only describe as the color of blood. No particular reason, just that it seemed apt, and it was in line with her interests at the time.
Purple, blue, the occasional pink… she wasn’t all that picky. She knew when something was pleasing to her eye and didn’t discriminate. She’d take whatever she wanted, until she herself had become a myriad of different colors all coalescing into some indistinguishable shade where the reds and yellows and pinks and blues all met.
When she dreams, her dreams are explosive. They wash over everything like waves of surrealism and fact being lost in fantasy, creeping into her core and emerging at the most inopportune times. When she dreams, she dreams of reality twisted and recolored to fit her tastes, with violet violets and those weird flowers with the blue centers and orange suns. Reality cripples her, and sometimes she stays lost for hours.
When he meets her, she’s in red and white. He’s in black. She’s odd, and she smiles out of nowhere and he instantly recognizes the juvenile air. There’s talk of things that don’t relate to them and she listens eagerly, taking in all that she can because there’s so much space in her life left to color.
They lose themselves in each other before long. Opposites attract, and the splash of color they’d said he needed seemed to offer itself up to him on a silver platter. He finds little things pleasing to his eye more and more.
A pink sweater, a blue shirt she wore on their first date, a pair of bright periwinkle pants. He sticks to black for a while, occasionally drifting to dark greens and greys, but still returning to his comfort zone every now and then. He gets a purple shirt even though he has no use for it, but gives it to her as a gift.
She settles down with the idea of all the black. She gives up some of the colors to allow herself to sit with fact and contemplate the plausible. She loses herself in her dreams less and less, and she begins to look forward to tangible, solid, possible realities.
She enjoys seeing him, dark brows furrowed as he contemplates the current state of affairs of whatever. She enjoys putting away his black shirts and his black socks and his black shoes. She puts them next to her multi-colored clothes and admires her handiwork.
He looks at the same thing and sees little splotches of color here and there. His room is now littered with the yellow of little notes she’d left him. On his table is a painting she’d made for him, a myriad of colors serving as their background. His messages, his life, and his soul all resonate with color, with her.
He struggles for a bit, to gain composure over the change that seemed to surprise him. He’d felt it, of course, how little bits of black had slowly been carved away with colored chalk, how paint was slowly brushed over the dark recesses. He’d felt it and he’d let it happen, but he woke up in a room he hardly recognized, in a place he couldn’t remember coming to, and he shut himself off in his dark once again.
She watches him struggle, her brush and her chalk in her back pocket, bottles of paint of different colors lining the floor below her. She watches him turn out the lights and lingers.
When she packs up her things and takes away the yellows of the post-its and the rainbow in the closet, he tells her he prefers black. She tells him that she knows, that she’s always known, but the part of her that could never be pulled back into reality had been left hoping that someday, he would learn to stay in the light long enough to look around him and see how beautiful all the color is.
He tells her that he had, and he did, but it wasn’t enough. Or it was too much. He isn’t sure anymore, but he knows he can’t have it. He won’t have it. He needs what he’s always had all along. Not the reds and the yellows or the pinks, purples, blues or oranges. He needs black.
She sits with him as he closes his eyes. He dreams of reality, of fact and fiction melding together into one. He sees a splash of color every here and there, every now and again, and he can’t help but think of her, and the color she’d brought.
She falls into bed and turns out the light, lying in darkness. When she closes her eyes and dreams, she doesn’t.
Originally posted on Tumblr on Aug 6th 2013