I get back to work. I can’t see the colors, but I remember how they blend, can see them in my mind. Merging the aquamarine blue with a white borrowed from a cloud on a winter day. There are golden sunrays, wisps of seaweed green wrapped around the conch, pink cheeks on the little baby who’s smiling as she sleeps. A rich, healthy brown covers the hands holding up the conch. There is love in these hands, belonging, and home.
A tear slips from my cheek, splotching on the paper, blurring the edge of the conch.
It doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all, save for the ache in my wrist and the complete absence of light from my window.
I stand, massaging my neck and working out the kinks in it. A weight has fallen from my shoulders, and the familiarity of the feeling is striking. Like stumbling through a memory so rich and real—all the hours I spent in this room, painting everything that popped into my head.
Mama will love this, I think, reaching for the notebook. Halfway through I remember my reality.
My hand falls, and I stare at the drawing.
Right.
I don’t let myself think much when my stomach grumbles loudly. I glance at my phone and find that it’s nearly eleven p.m. I have six unread messages and one email notification.
Two are from Alexis, asking if I’ve done the chemistry homework. Four from Amal asking about me.
The email is from Jamie with today’s notes.
My stomach rumbles again, and I head to the kitchen to fix myself something to eat before I sleep. I didn’t study anything, didn’t do any of my homework, and I don’t care.
In the darkness, I eat my sandwich, staring at the wall in front of me. A light turns on from the neighboring building that illuminates the wall, and I see a dash of red.
I freeze midchew, my stomach tightening. But the color disappears just as suddenly, and I think I imagined it.
Poppy Red
I wake upfrom a dreamless sleep and rub my eyes to find scattered brushes and tubes on the floor with the sketchbook right in the middle.
My vision wavers, and I know something is different, but I can’t put my finger on it. Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes and look around my room. It takes a few seconds for it to sink in.
Red.
Splashes of red swarm around my room. My hair tie on the floor. The paintbrush with the dried red on its bristles. The books on my shelves with red covers. The red shirt peeking through the closet door I didn’t fully tuck in.
Everything else is still gray.
I press a hand to my mouth, a surprised sob falling out.
I can see red.
I stumble through the apartment, my eyes greedily taking in as much of the color as they can. I rush to the vanity, where Mama’s rouge is, and press the tip to my fingers, staining them. The decorative crystal pomegranates she brought from Syria for the living roomtwinkle at me. The red threads in the carpet. The red patterns on the plates stacked in the glass shelves.
My heart thunders in my chest, and I look down at my arms to see the blood flowing through my veins.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“What is happening?” I whisper.
I think of calling Amal and telling her the news, but she won’t believe me.
Alexis would.
My excitement comes to a stop when I remember what happened yesterday. Our fight. That moment with Adrian.
I’m already running late, so I get dressed, trying not to get distracted by all the bursting red around me.
I make the subway on time, tapping my foot and staring out the window. Walls and people blur, but I see each strand of red clearly. It weaves among the gray. I catch a glimpse of something that makes my back straighten, but it’s gone as fast as it appeared.
