Through Painted Eyes and Pastel Tears

Chapter 1: Tayo Na Lang Dalawa

This world is unlike any other. Once you're born, your brain is unable to process any color, not even a speck or spattering of any hue; everything, and anything, is black and white, sometimes gray. Not until you meet your soulmate. A little cliché for such a cruel, unforgiving world, if you ask me. My name is Thomas Vera, my friends call me Tommy. I'm 23, and I'm a writer, filmmaker, small time director, all around stagehand, and crew member for a production company here in Quezon City, though I live in Sampaloc.

There isn't much to tell about me, I'm 5'11", fair skinned, unkempt, and unruly hair, thick framed glasses for my astigmatism, chinito, sad eyes. And just like you, I can't see colors.. not yet.

"Thomas!"

"Ser?!" I said, snapped out of my daze, head shooting up over the walls of my cubicle.

It was Direk Arthur. The head honcho. He's been bugging me to finish this project I've been working on, but haven't gotten anything so far. Don't get anything wrong, this middle aged, salt n' pepper, pudgy short man was the nicest professor I had when I was in UP Film Institute.

"Balita? How's your story going? Ready to pitch?" He said as he sat down next to me, pulling up a chair next to me at my desk. Our company, "The Collective Productions", prefers to be called a collective of artists. Hence the name. On my first day here, he said 'No desks. Be a bird and find your own nest, man.' The space was more of an empty studio than an office when we first opened up, but mixed with a playground, some desks, indoor plants, a cafeteria with vegan options (yuck), a genderless bathroom with doors just saying "For Peeing" or "For Pooping." The office had desks, a boardroom free to be used by anyone, an office for Sir Art, dividers that went up only up to an average person's shoulders. I brought in my own cubicle, practically set it up myself.

"Ah..eh.. ano, sir eh."

Dead meat, Tommy.

He shook his head, put an arm around the back rest of my office chair and said, "Alam mo, Thomas. Di naman kita pinepresure, chill ka lang. I know you're brilliant, I'm just checking in on you."

He stood up and ruffled my hair as I responded, "Thanks, Sir Art. Hirap lang kasi naman netong challenge mo." I took out the post-it note he left on my desk two weeks ago, "Describe each color of the rainbow."

"Oh, madali lang yan ah?" He chuckled, then twisted the ring finger in his left hand, a gold wedding band studded by a few diamonds. "Nakakita ka na ba ng rainbow?"

I shook my head, laughing, "Gago, amputa. Ano ka ba? Hello, black and white?"

He shook his head and sighed, laughing as well while he leaned on the doorway to his office, "Di ka pa na-i-in love no?"

Wow. What the fuck, Art. I could only nod in approval, almost in defeat. Shaking his head, he left me in my seat on that note. It was as if the guy pitied me.

I looked out the window and wondered what the sky looked like, what color it could be? My parents could only describe it to me; warm and cold at the same time, the color of sadness but also of bravery. Blue.

No idea what it is.

In this world, only the lucky few are gifted with the sight of color, the lucky few who find their soulmates. Isn't that what I said earlier?

I've seen those people at weddings, parties. They could only say so much about the first time they saw colors, the first time they fell in love.

I snapped out of my daydream and self loathing, and proceeded to collect my bag and camera, detached my earphones from my laptop and scurried out of the building after telling Sir Art where I'd be, he could only wave goodbye while he was on the phone, with his wife most likely. Lucky bastard had a huge ass grin on his face.

I boarded the elevator, joined by a few colleagues.

"Wassup, Tommy Bologne?" It was Lea, my Fil-Jap friend. I've known her for over five years now.

 She was holding a mason jar of black coffee in one hand, and a pack of Marlboro Reds in the other hand. "San ka? Yosi?"

"Di. Labas muna. Nasestress na ko sa story na pinapagawa ni Art eh." I said while looking at the chrome finish of the elevator door, taking out a pack of cigarettes myself as we exited the lift.

"Ah! Yung kinginang color shit na yan? Good luck, dude." She said, lighting a cigarette despite not having exited the building yet, she leaned on the side of the building where a concrete ashtray is, and waved me off as I said goodbye.

I took my phone out, plugged my earphones in and played my Marc E. Bassy playlist. This man's songs got me through rough patches in my life. I sighed and started walking down the sidewalk, smoking a stick while turning my camera on. Not even far from the building, I spotted an old couple by the park, holding hands. I could overhear one man telling his husband how beautiful the roses he got for him. I smiled through my eyepiece as I snapped a photo then continued walking.

I wonder what red looks like? My brother, Jake, married at age 26 said that the color reflected anger, fire. But also passion, intensity, love. He said whenever I feel either seething anger, or immense passion, I would have already probably seen red.

I haven't, Jake. Puta.

I made my way to my usual coffee shop, my go-to spot a few blocks away from our office building. I ducked in through the glass door, holding it open for a few people before going over to the counter to order my usual, iced Americano, then took an ashtray from the umbrella rack, and sat outside on the porch. I lit my second stick, set my phone and camera down on the table and looked up at the sky.

Blue bitch, why won't you let me see you?! Who made things black and white anyway? Whoever it is, is a real asshole. Almost everyone around me sees colors already. James, one of my work mates, his favorite color's pink, Andy, purple. I don't see the whole shebang about colors to be quite honest. I guess I'm gonna wing it with my story and use what little knowledge I have of colors. Sir Art would see through my bullshit, but I have the perfect explanation.

I never got around the concept of love and relationships yet. It's always been me, my art, and my writings. My imagination, or what my best friends would say, "Thomas' utter and complete bullshit perspective" got me through several projects, photoshoots, exhibits and shit. But never really...felt love; I've never fallen in-

"Can you light me up?" The deepest feminine voice said.

There she was. Piercings studded her ears, one on her nose, right between the nostrils. She was smiling, asking for a light. I stared at her in awe for a few seconds, she wasn't that tall, she's kinda short, a little wiry and lanky in the arms, her collar bone was exposed through her off shoulder top. Her rounded eyes had long eyelashes that curled at the ends, lips were small, but plump; her neck was a little slender. She wore a pencil skirt, a band shirt, "Mayday Parade." Great choice in music, might I add. She had Old Skool Vans on, untied on the left.

I handed her my lighter, still staring at her.

"Thanks." She lit her cigarette, then set the lighter back down on the table, she chuckled and fixed her messenger bag on her shoulder, tucking a lock of her hair behind one ear, looking off to the side a little, then down at her feet. "What? Is something on my face?"

Well not her face, her head actually. Her hair. It was.. Not white, not black. It was-