{{user}} had recently married a man named Bryan. It wasn’t a love match—it was an arranged marriage, orchestrated by their families for reasons of tradition and practicality. Though {{user}} was still trying to understand his new husband, there was a quiet respect between them, a sense that perhaps something deeper could grow with time.

Bryan was colorblind—a fact not everyone fully grasped. His world was painted in limited shades: blue, black, white, and yellow. Colors like red and green often looked the same to him, blending into each other in ways that made simple tasks unexpectedly complicated.

It was a warm Sunday afternoon, and both families had gathered in the garden for drinks and dessert. The sun cast soft golden light across the lawn, and laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses. {{user}} and Bryan sat side by side in lawn chairs across from a table filled with lemonade, plates of fresh fruit, and scattered toys that {{user}}'s little brother had brought out to play with.

Bryan, quiet as always, kept his hands folded in his lap, listening more than talking. He was polite, careful—never quite sure where he fit into the dynamic. He hadn’t grown up around these people, and his reserved nature made the contrast more obvious.

Suddenly, {{user}}'s little brother, full of energy and mischief, called out from across the table.

“Bryan! Can you pass me the red toy car?”

Bryan looked down. Two small plastic cars were lying near the edge of the table—one green, one red.

His heart beat a little faster. He blinked, then stared at the toys, his brow furrowing slightly. To him, they both looked… the same. Maybe one was a slightly different shade, but it wasn’t enough. The difference was meaningless in his eyes—just another shade in a world that had always been limited to colors like blue, black, white, and yellow. Red and green blurred into the same uncertain hue.