C O L O R S

B L U E

There's always something about rain that makes Kris adore it that much.

Rain is blue.

Blue is sadness.

He just can't explain it but he always finds comfort in sadness. He thinks that raindrops are the tears of every people breaking down in their own dark rooms, hugging their legs to their chest, with no one to talk to.

Raindrops are pieces of people whose lives have been taken away.

Raindrops are people who finally set themselves free.

That is the only time when he feels that he is not alone.

He likes the idea of rain touching his face. But not during weekdays when school happens and he has to wait in one of the busy bus stops of the never sleeping Ayala.

He hugs his backpack tightly every time the wind will blow and droplets of rain will stain his already soaked hoodie. The road seems to become a new parking lot for the car of every pissed driver that's been cursing the traffic for who knows how long. Kris doesn't know, too.

All he knows is that he has been impatiently tapping his shoes for thirty long minutes but no bus has ever arrived to pick up maybe even a couple numbers out of tons of people waiting as him.

"Why don't you just take the train?" he asks himself.

He does want to take the train. That is, if only people riding the MRT knows how to keep their eyes to themselves. Because seriously, the last time he's tried to hop on, people has glued their eyes on him because he's never wanted to sit. Because he's wanted the old lady to take the sole vacant seat.

But the old lady never took it. He never took it. So maybe people have thought he was stupid because of ignoring the chance that was in front of him.

Well, he is stupid, and he already knows that.

"Baclaran, Pasay Rotonda, Magallanes!" His face lights up upon hearing the tired shout of the driver's assistant of an air conditioned bus, but Kris doesn't move. Few people climb aboard and the wheels don't roll yet, as if waiting for him.

"Where to, boy?" the assistant asks him and he instantly stiffens, lowering his head and clutching onto his backpack even tighter. "Hey, boy?"

"Taft." It's almost a whisper, but the assistant seems to have excellent hearing that he doesn't have to ask Kris for a second time.

"C'mon. Hop on quick!" The bus starts to drive away, getting faster every second. Still, he can't seem to move his feet that have been stitched to the wet pavement. Shaking his head, the assistant pull Kris by his backpack, into the crowded vehicle. "Damn, what's with you?" the assistant says before the door creates an irritating whooshing sound and everything resumes to process.

Kris' gaze wanders around. Eyes---tired, inquisitive, curious, and scrutinizing---follow him until he settles at the far end, standing. A sigh of relief escapes his mouth when finally people stop staring at him, but it's still undeniable that he can't stop being agitated by the presence of those many people around him.

He can't comprehend any of it; why he can never be familiar with an active environment; why he can't stand talking to people for a good couple of minutes; why he perceives everything has its back turned against him. He's clueless. He doesn't want any of it yet it continues to swallow him whole.

But that's what depression actually is. It will cloud your thoughts until you can't think straight anymore. It will slowly devour you, depriving you of what you deserve, restricting you of what you may and should become---just so until it can finally have your very all.