The world was a mixture of colors, so many of them.
Zayn saw all of them, saw how the night sky was a deep purple with blue, and how to clouds were gray with white, the trees were blue, such a pretty color. Everything was so colorful nothing was ever dull. He started to see that world like that in high school, and he has never been so happy because of that. But it didn’t always work out for Zayn, because everyone else saw the world as black, white, and gray. ( Just like he did back when he was little and dull ) But he didn’t, there are so many colors, so many shades and it’s a big shame nobody else can see them, because they are so beautiful.
Nobody has ever been able to really make sense of his paintings.
They were all a bunch of colors; a green pond with blue swirls, a blue mountain and purple clouds, everyone thought he was just being creative, but nobody ever asked because everyone assumed they were right with their assumptions. He had his own studio, his guest room on his flat. The walls were splattered with drawings he had put there when he needed to get the idea down, and there wasn’t a canvas in proximity. Many colors blended together because it just looked so amazing. There wasn’t a blank spot on his wall, and he loved it like that. It was a way to express himself, and he loved it. Right until his first year at uni, 3 months in, when he was offered a scholarship to another uni, the one of his dreams; Julliard.
He was so full of excitement, so much hope, he was so naïve and because of that, he got hurt. They had told him his designs were great! So creative, amazing but they weren’t what they wanted; they wanted realism instead of an impressionist.
Zayn understood colors, paint, and canvas he just didn’t understand people. He left his dreams closed and keyed in a room where he didn’t enter anymore, almost two years later. His room was now full of posters of painters like Van Gogh and O’Keefe and Dali, people who he was sure would understand his view on the world, the colors. But he didn’t touch a single brush, his last canvas remained locked in that room that was once full of hope but now only held broken dreams. He worked at a library now, and changed to study to be a drama teacher, and tried to forget about all the colors and all those beautiful shades, but it was almost impossible because that’s how he saw the world; a shade of blue like the ocean, and green spots with yellow, so it was hard, but he tried.
He was a regular at the café down the road from his flat, and went there almost every day at night, and sat to read; books and words were the only thing he had now. Usually, there was almost nobody there at the time he arrived ( it was the reason he went at that hour ) but today, it was full. There was no space to walk through, and everyone was chattering away.
Zayn found a sit at the far end of the café, and sat down with his book on hand, and frown. What was so special, why so many people? He didn’t get an answer until a few minutes later, when a voice rang out on the mic.
“Hello! Me name is Niall, and I am going to perform for you tonight!”
He looked up, awestruck by the melody of that voice, it sounded blue, and Zayn’s favorite color was blue. He put his book down, and stared at the pale block who was taking his guitar and smiling so much that Zayn was surprise how much happiness that boy held, he felt almost jealous.
Then, he started strumming some chords and started to sing.
Zayn was amazed by the beauty of his voice, almost angelic to his ear, he stood up, forgetting about his book and walked as fast as he could to the front, where the music was hear better. When he finally made it to the edge of the stage, he saw how the boy was; he was pale, had a beautiful shade of blue eyes, and so many freckles Zayn wanted to take him, burry him on a blanket and count of all of them.
But he didn’t, because right that second, Zayn felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time ago; he felt the colors burst through him, he felt the music around him forming such a beautiful picture. His eyes got wide and sprinted out of the café, eager to get home. He ran so fast, and when he finally reached his flat, he threw the door open, and ran to his bedroom, and opened his nightstand drawer, frantically searching for the keys of that room. When he finally found them, he ran to the room a hall down of his, and stood in front of that door. He stared at it, so long since he had been in front of this door, with those same feelings.
He opened the door and let the paint scent hit his nostrils, inhaling it because he missed it so fucking much. He slowly walked to where his last canvas was, and took a deep breath, opening his box with brushes and took one, and then opened the other box where his paint still lay, and bit his lip.
Almost an hour later, Zayn smiled and stepped back to look at the painting.
It was those eyes of the pale boy, staring back at him, with green flacks floating around and Zayn felt like he was going to burst with happiness because it had been such a long time he had had that feelings; that feelings were an idea struck and he had to paint, he just had to. That feeling of proudness as he stared back at his painting.
He realized he wanted to feel like that again, and again.
Zayn went back to the café the next day, at the same time, hoping the blue-eyed boy was there to give him more ideas, to give him more happiness he so longed for.
He wasn’t there.
But Zayn returned the next day, with a new canvas in hand, waiting for the boy to return, and when he didn’t, he walked back home, and walked straight to his studio, and put the canvas where the last one was, and hoped to see the boy again.
But he never did, the blue eyed boy never came back, and as much as Zayn came returning, as much as he told himself he didn’t have to, he knew he was lying to himself. He needed to see that boy, because that boy brought to him what he thought he had lost 2 years ago, he needed to feel that rush of colors.
The boy never came back, and the blank canvas lay in the room, waiting.
Zayn didn’t enter the room again, it was just so much of disappointment now, the blank canvas remained blank, just like Zayn; the colors gone and everything went back to black, white, and grey.