Chromatic

7

I drive home through light traffic. The rain patters with a soft touch on my windshield. I don't turn the automated wipers on–the drops keep me company.

When I walk through the door, I throw my bag on the sofa. Crunch! I walk over to inspect the cause of the noise. It's just the paper lunch bag–I realize that I never opened the small handwritten note from my mother. I uncrumple the neglected square-cut paper. In neat cursive, it reads:

"Have fun, my love. Make new friends. Find love. -Mom ♡"

I roll my eyes while I try to suppress a warm smile. Every since I came out to my mom, she hasn't stopped bugging me about finding a boyfriend. 

–

"But there's so much love out there, Aidan! And cute boys!" she exclaimed.

"That's great, mom," I complained. "No one is going to love me anyways."

I saw the light in her eyes falter. "Don't you dare say that, sweetie! You are so lovable! Trust me! One day, somebody will love you. You will be their whole world; all that they can see. You will bring color to their eyes!"

That got me where it hurt.

I kept from snapping back at her, because she didn't know.

"Okay," I said in a broken voice.

–

I'm feeling around, and I realize that I am on the ground. All I see is black. I flail around in panic, and I grab onto what feels like a table leg. The world and its reality warps around me. I regain consciousness on the couch, clutching my worn backpack for support. I'm suddenly exhausted. Did I just . . . what just happened? A flashback? Why was it in such vivid detail? Why did it give me pain?

I shake it off. Today has just been filled with the strangest phenomena.

I sit down at my unclean desk in my dimly lit room. I let out a long sigh. I pull out a canvas from underneath my desk and set it on top with a loud thump. My mind completely blanks, and I sit there for what feels like ages. I look at the beaming digital clock on my bedside table.

6:35 pm.

This is when I usually start homework. But, gladly, I wasn't assigned any. So I grab my phone and begin to distract myself. Victoria is at her guitar lessons, so I better not text her. I open Instagram, to browse.

I see notifications telling me that I have received two comments on my latest post. 

"Please draw me!!!! I love your art!"

"OMG I love this! Can you please paint me?"

I ignore those comments. I only post my paintings because I don't like posting photos of myself. Personally, I don't see the point in that. I continue scrolling through the endless timeline of posts, occasionally double tapping. My finger halts mid-tap when I look closely at a particular photo. A face jumps out from the screen, grabbing my guts and twisting them around. I do a double-take. It's that boy. the boy. from homeroom. his soft smiling face glares up at me from my dim phone screen, and it feels like my heart stops beating. i take a deep breath and collect myself. I'm letting myself lose control of my feelings. It's only the first day of school. 

He doesn't know me, and I don't know him. I don't even know his name–I check the photo to see if his account is tagged.