I was born into a quiet world — all edges and shadows, light and dark, nothing in between. People described sunsets like poetry and flowers like miracles, but to me they were just pale shapes against darker skies. I had stopped asking what “blue” meant. I had made peace with gray.

Then I ran into someone.

It was raining outside the train station. Umbrellas collided, apologies tangled, and my fingers brushed her wrist for barely a second.

And the world—Exploded.

The pavement beneath us wasn’t just wet stone. It was deep, shimmering charcoal reflecting streaks of something warm and golden from the streetlights. Her hair—God—her hair wasn’t just light or dark. It was something rich, something alive. And her eyes— I didn’t know what color they were called, but they burned into me like a secret I’d been denied my entire life.

She pulled her hand back first. The color drained instantly. The world snapped back into black and white. I think that’s when I realized I couldn’t lose her. I catch her sleeve before she can disappear into the crowd, heart pounding like I’ve just stolen something sacred.

“Wait,” I breathe, staring at her face as if I can force the colors to stay. “I don’t know your name yet… but I think you just gave me my entire world. So please— let me see it again.”