Curate, connect, and discover
Yellow and purple make gray. They make gray lines in the sunset and live on opposite ends of the colour wheel. They don’t mix.
She thought of herself as gray at first. Gray was how she lived. In between, never first nor last. Gray was happy that way, mild and indecisive.
And when someone who was yellow came along, she found herself longing. She could be right next to her forever, beside Yellow, with her pastel colors and bright brown eyes that screamed of life and look at me, I exist and I can be happy while I do it. Gray was content. Life was perfect in the way that everything became familiar and recognizable, never bombarding with change and confusion.
And maybe that’s what made Yellow find a real Gray.
Purple and Yellow don’t mix.
Gray(?) didn’t realize how she’d always worn dark colours that came straight from the edge of ocean’s sunsets instead of light grays, and how she’d worn hats and leather jackets with dark flowers stitched elegantly on each edge, and how she’s always, always, looked at Yellow as something she could never have, as something she could only look at and never touch, never ever touch because what if she stained her hoodies and left rips in her jeans and made her Gray? Made her an in-between?
Every word seemed pointless to say when she found Yellow in bed with a true Gray. One who could never make her confused or changed.
Never again.
Purple didn’t care for pastel grays much anymore.