All He Wrote // Phan AU

Chapter 0.1

White – Absence of all colour, feeling, life or emotion. Synonyms include: Nothing, Lifeless, emotionless, empty.

Dan's P.O.V

Days flow on in an endless mess of nothing and everything. Anything can happen in a day, but mine all stay the same. A tedious cycle of being swamped by noise, happening all at once and all around me, and drowning in a silent solace. But there is no in-between. I don't like in-betweens. They mess up the system. You cannot sort the colour grey but you can pick it apart into fragments of white and black.

Some people are grey. And some are white. And some have small hints of purple or yellow or red.

I am white.

With a little dash of light blue.

And someday I want to find out why.

But for now my only option is hollow halls and rusted walls and a table made for two, which is only occupied by one.

Myself and a hundred sheets of paper in a scattered mess. The words scribbled over white pages with blue lines are strung together in a way that doesn't make sense. But it's not supposed to, that's the whole point. They go from a mind of white and blue to a page of corresponding colours, and honestly there is no difference between them.

Ringing bells and scuffling feet and the scratch of pen on paper.

Time. No time. Infinite time. Time does not exist.

Sorrow-filled eyes of chalky grey and wrinkled lines complementing a sympathetic smile.

Time to go.

I clear my chaos into a book purely made for the purpose of first pages. Only a single piece of paper picked at random was to be left behind with the sole intention of drawing another's attention. Carefully placed as if to look like an accident. A little bit of sunset orange left behind with it. Hope.

Pushing and shoving. There's no point in pushing through only to be shoved back again. Stand still, wait. Don't draw attention.

Now go.

The trees are beautiful flowing in the 4pm, late July wind. The tear-like rain has gone on hiatus to leave behind one day of beauty. A day that has been hiding behind shadows of falling droplets and high speed winds that are ready to bowl over everything in their path. The change in scenery isn't something to relate to, but it is beautiful all the same.

Flowers. Red, pink and yellow, scattered from here to there. But white. White flowers everywhere the movement of my body and the darting of my eyes can take me.

I am white, but most definitely not a flower. I'm not fragile enough. Is that bad?

I'm more like the white of hidden constellations in a clear night sky. You can see me, but I'm so far away that you cannot comprehend that I'm dead. Because light travels the same way pain does, slowly. Which coincidentally is the speed of my wandering feet through a forest of leaves. With autumn left far behind me the leaves still remain. The only memory left from warmer days and shorter nights.

Home. But it doesn't feel like my heart is here. Only empty rooms and silence and an inability to change either of those things.

Black, black, black. Black walls, black clothes, black shoes. Reminding me of black hair. And the blue and white inside me reminding me of blue eyes and white skin. Oh, but a contrast. Black isn't a colour. You cannot be black.

He is something, hiding a little dash of white.