Yellow.

Happy Father's Day.

"It's little things that only I know .Those are the things that make you mine. And it's like flying without wings. 'Cause you're my special thing

I'm flying without wings,"- Westlife, Flying without wings.

This is dedicated to everyone reading this, you guys make writing yellow for me feel like flying without wings and it is surreal to see an amount of people appreciating, connecting and enjoying what I write. The reads will never matter because the readers matter more, the laughs, jokes and reactions make it worth it. Happy Fathers day to the single dads out there, Autistic, Neurotypical and all kinds of amazing and special papas out there, you rock xx.

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A fine spring morning.

The flowers are blossoming in full, the shrouds of dark clouds parting and making way for the vibrant sun. Streets have been washed and kissed by the glorious midnight rain, and the after smell is lightly oozing from every corner. Rays of the sun has bathed through the glass windows of the room, and are somehow reflecting against the plain coloured walls. Painted in a warm cream colour, mild enough to tame the wandering mind of an autistic young adult, who just happened to turn twenty a few months back.

On the ceiling are handmade splotches of clouds, made out of cotton wool and little crafty materials, simply because that's what helps him stay calm after a panic attack. The bedsheets are soft, smell like jasmine and so does the cow patterned onesie adorned on him. He slowly shifts on the bed, making a little sound to prove he is awake, and pushing his growing hair away from his face.

The heaviness on his eyelids cause him to immediately frown, wondering why they are refusing to work with him and remembering what he has to face today. It is supposedly a special day, and he does not understand why. The week has been odd and confusing for him, and today will be the final salt slowly rubbed into his wound. It is hard to decipher and fathom, but he has stopped trying to.

Linda disappeared for nine months, only to allow her mother show up with a child allegedly belonging to him. It does not make sense, and it might never make sense to him. The child did not even look like him from the farthest distance he kept immediately Anne took the little form around her arms and pressed her to her chest, as a maternal figure.

Yet to make eye contact or even know what his child actually looks like, Harry has made up his made and accepted the baby is not possibly his. It can be approximately said he has had proper sex with Linda only thrice, the other two times cannot be added because he kept giggling halfway through and had to pull out, literally.

Harry flops his head down on his comfort pillow, it is the softest of his pillow and it happens to make him calm whenever he is about have an attack, and it is pretty. A bit of loose curls dangle down the side of his freshly flushed face, soft and puckered from sleep. He blows up his cheeks a bit and groans to himself, dreading how every single thing is about to change from this day on.

A gentle knock sounds on the door and Harry tightly frowns, knowing he is not ready to speak but he has to answer that. The knock sounds again before the door is gently pushed open, and a smiley Robin pokes his head into the room.

"Morning son, can I come in?" Robin asks, still trying to keep a normal relationship with his special step-son.

Harry stays on the bed, blankly staring at the wall and not giving an answer to Robin. The older man does not mind, he is getting used to how things work around here and he knows it will not be that easy dealing with Harry. Robin smiles and gently sits on the edge of the bed, observing how Harry is waking himself up and thinking of how to start a simple conversation.