ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕪 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕝𝕕, Beomjun

001

Grey is in everything for Beomgyu.

It's the colour—or shade, whatever you prefer to call it—that he's seen for as long as he can remember.

Usually, it doesn't bother him that he can't see the colours everyone else can. It's not like people go out of their way to appreciate the fact that trees have beautiful green leaves that go crisp and brown in autumn. They don't appreciate the wonderful colours that make them up as individuals, like fiery hair or honey-kissed skin, which he's heard about in books but can't picture. No one ever appreciates the brightness of the sun.

People complain.

"That's too yellow", "that colour clashes with this one."

Colour is something overlooked, underappreciated, and taken for granted.

A grey world can be lonely.

Some fellow students of his become A-level descriptive writers when asked the question, "What's your favourite colour?"

He sees the quiet glances they give him when they realise they haven't asked him his, not that it matters. They aren't going to; he can't see the colours they see.

So, he continues painting his boringly grey canvas with darker shades of grey and lighter ones too. He wonders if the colours he can't see but uses go well together or not, or whether people are nicer to him because of his disability.

He kind of hopes they don't; it's for a bitter reason, but he can't help it. They shouldn't get to see a possible masterpiece if they won't fully appreciate it, restricted by the ignorance of having functioning cone cells. It's unfair; his appreciation is restricted. Not because he fails to appreciate it, but because he's incapable of doing so.

Yes, he could fawn over the beautiful variety of shades, but it's hard when he's missing out on so much more.

He huffs to himself, focusing on his canvas and his paintbrush, even though he no longer has it in him to paint. Not when he's remembering how his art teacher pities him because of his condition. There's no bad intent behind it. It's helpful, really. But in the mood he's in currently, he hates it.

He can't wait to get back to his dorm, make himself a cup of dark grey coffee, and hide away in his room, pretending he doesn't hear his roommate come in. He doesn't want to greet him because he'll see right through him in seconds, question what's wrong, and then go out of his way to console him.

His roommate is generous like that—too caring.

And Beomgyu doesn't have the heart to tell Yeonjun to go away because the elder's smile will crack and he'll be to blame.

.•° ✿ °•.

Beomgyu locks himself away in his room as soon as he comes in, after stealing some snacks from the cupboard, crisps, and a fruit roll-up. Real healthy.

He makes himself a coffee too, like he planned to do, and then to his room he goes. He props his laptop on his lap and sits half-up on his bed with a pillow behind his back for comfort.

He doesn't manage to write much for the analysis portion of his study, so he bitterly punches into the page. "Red is grey, blue is grey, everything is grey."

It's pathetic, and he'll probably laugh looking back on it later, but he doesn't care; he's allowing himself to ferment in his emotions. Crossing his arms over his chest and voicing his frustration, he tips his head back against his headboard and groans.

Seconds later, his door opens a smidge, and his roommate—and best friend—pokes his head through his room. "Everything okay?" Yeonjun asks with a cocked brow. He looks at the laptop perched up on Beomgyu's thighs and then at Beomgyu himself.