When I was younger, around elementary years, I used to think of people as colors. My sunday school teacher was a soft gray because her voice reminded me of ocean waves on a cloudy day. My father was a golden brown, happy and optimistic about life almost every moment of the day. To compliment Daddy, a sky blue hue surrounded Mama, as she was almost as cheerful but sweeter, gentler than he was. I thought of a color for everyone, different hues and shades; some were duller, some brighter, some darker, some lighter. I never truly fell in love with someone's colors, though, until I got to know one of my closest friends. With his wavy hair, puppy eyes, and caring smile, his colors were delicate, soft to the touch and comforting. I saw swirls of warm gold and light pink around him, colors that immediately calmed me down whenever I saw them. They became brighter when he smiled, and softer when he didn't. I don't think he knew the extent to which he made me feel safe and happy; he just knew that he was the one I went to whenever I needed someone there.
Eventually, I developed a small crush on him, which made my own colors, apricot orange and evening sky blue (the color of my eyes), shine more brightly. This crush grew and grew until just seeing him made me more bubbly and confident. I would rest my head on his shoulders when we watched movies, and he would wrap an arm gently around my shoulders. We would sit in complete silence throughout the entire film, just resting comfortably in each other presences. I thought it could happen between us, honestly thought he would see in me what I saw in him.
But as junior year rolled around, my colors began to change until both were vibrant, almost violently bright. I don't know how the change occurred, but my personality changed with it, and I became almost a different person. I talked much less and drew into myself a lot more. I put a lot more effort into those classes where emotions could be expressed. My grades slowly slipped down to a B or B+ average in the other classes. I took to wearing my hair down more, not brushing it as well because it gave me a wilder look, and I began wearing makeup. Oddly enough, though, I felt happier this way, like I was becoming me.
My regret during those years comes from the fact that my colors no longer complimented his. He still remained the sweet puppy that was soft and gentle and didn't want to hurt anyone. He acted the same around me, but I acted differently around him, thinking that he'd still accept me. People grow, though, and they change, and though I still saw that he cared for me in his eyes, I knew that my colors had grown less lovely in his view. Mine were almost violent, as I said, and his were still the warm gold and light pink that I loved for the rest of my life.