Coloured Edges

There was too much colour in you, I think. And even though I have never been fond of paintings, you were the kind of picture I wish I had created myself. The first time I saw you, it was red all around. Not the metaphorical, clichéd red that speaks of hearts and love , because I'm not into those things either. No, it was literally red. The courtyard where you stood was a deep shade of whatever red it was (because, let's face it—if I had written garnet, you'd know I had googled it). You were also carrying this bright red bag that you'd later told me you hated, and I'd taken it from you. Somewhere along the way, I started hating it too.

You added more vibrancy to every colour, somehow. Unfortunately, the sky always seems bluer when you were around, and the sun just a tad bit brighter. And note, I say unfortunately because you know I always preferred grey skies and impending storms, with the sun nowhere to be seen. I know you're smirking right now while reading this, thinking about how the day we parted "coincidentally" witnessed the heaviest rain of the year. I remember going home that day and not even bothering to go to the terrace to just inhale, like I usually would. I cried myself to sleep that night; not because you had left, but because it was raining. Thinking about this change you brought about still horrifies me.

God, what were you? You were golden like the snitch (and damn near impossible to catch too), and your eyes were the brownest shade that pulled me in and drove me out and shattered my entire existence. You were neither a kaleidoscope nor a rainbow, but more like a palette smeared with paint that an artist had used to create his first masterpiece. You were nothing on the outside and everything on the inside - everything etched so deep within that it was impossible to reach you. Come to think of it, I never knew much about you, did I? Not your favourite colour, not why you hated that red bag, nor why you felt the need to cover up all your rough edges.

There was a little too much colour in you, and I've never been fond of painting. I tried to add a few more shades to myself, to make the two of us a little less apart, but it didn't work. After all, you were born to be a masterpiece, but I'm not an artist, and you're not my muse.

The writer is a grade 11 student of Scholastica.