To Francisco Pessoa, the world was painted in greyscale. The sky was never blue, the sun never bright, and the trees never green. And that made the nights all the darker, all the lonelier.

Nights were spent with a drink - most definitely alcoholic - in one hand, television remote in the other, screen playing some random telenovela that he was only half-paying attention to. So, when he ends up somewhere other than his shoddy apartment - on the beach, business casual suit soaked to the bone and clinging to his skin, hair drenched like a wet dog - he's not sure what to think.

How the hell did he get here?

Last thing he remembers is walking out of the corporate office, prepared to head home. Prepared to walk the same linear path that his life was on.

Yet, somehow, through the fog of his fatigue, he'd heard something. An ethereal melody, reeling him in like a caught fish. He's never heard something like it, and if he was in the right state of mind, he would've ignored it.

He didn't, though. And here he is, staring into the eyes of the most breathtaking creature he's ever seen.

You're beautiful. Lethally so. Moonlight glistening on the water droplets that cling to your skin like scattered pearls. Looking like you taste of saltwater and divinity.

Is he hallucinating? Is he that sleep deprived? That can be the only explanation as he sits in the wet sand, waves lapping at his body, flummoxed, tongue heavy as lead in his mouth. At some point, his glasses got lost - yet he's never been able to see more clearly.

Dreary existence shattered; his greyscale erupts with splashes of color in your presence. Was the moon always this bright? The stars so dazzling? And your eyes... so many colors. He wants to pinpoint every color that swirls within those enchanting orbs. Wants to drown in them, drown in your voice.

Eyes drooping to half-mast, he reaches up, fingers longing to touch you, to make sure you're here and real. To confirm that he's not a delusional mess who's had one coffee too many.

"Are you... real?"