colors ; michael clifford [book 1]

n i n e

Layla finished her song that night, sat in the dark with only a small lamp on and her cat laying next to her for company.

She started with the first verse, and it came very quickly to her.

Your little brother never tells you but he loves you so,
You said your mother only smiled on her TV show.
You're only happy when your sorry head is filled with dope,
I hope you make it to the day you're twenty eight years old.

The next few lines came slower to her, but she got them eventually after thinking of the way Michael had affected her. His red was dripping, covering her blue and changing it. He was changing her.

You're dripping like a saturated sunrise,
You're spilling like an overflowing sink.

Michael was damaged, he was broken, ripped. He was addicted to drugs and he liked to smoke, but he was perfect to Layla. She thought that was strange.

You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece,
And now your tearing through the page and the ink.

Layla tapped her pen on the table, trying to get inspiration, when suddenly, something came to her. She scribbled it down in a messy scrawl before she forgot it.

Everything is blue,
His pills, his hands, his jeans.
And now I'm covered in the colours,
Pulled apart at the seams.
And it's blue,
And it's blue.

Everything is grey,
His hair, his smoke, his dreams.
And now he's so devoid of colour,
He don't know what it means.
And he's blue,
And he's blue.

She smiled proudly, happy with what she had written so far, and grabbed her acoustic guitar from the corner of her bedroom. Layla wasn't a great player, she could only play the very basics, but she was learning. Slowly, she was learning.

Layla played a few chords she thought would sound good together and got a nice rhythm going before she began to sing.

She spent the rest of the night writing the song about Michael, which she promptly named Colors. She realised that night that, along the way, she had somehow fallen for Michael, and that made her sad, because she knew he'd never feel the same about her.

***

"You like her!" Halsey exclaimed, jumping up and down on Michael's couch in excitement.

Michael blushed ruby red, shaking his head from his spot on the bed. "No I don't," he denied, but it was half hearted. Of course he liked her. He more than liked her. He was obsessed with her. Addicted to her.

"Yes you do!" his friend giggled, her green bun bobbing as she threw herself back down onto the bed.

"Stop making the bed squeak! My mum will think we're fucking!" Michael snapped, desperate for her to stop her incessant teasing.

Halsey rolled her eyes, obviously annoyed with Michael. "Why won't you admit it?" She was sick of him never admitting things like this. She knew he was detached from his feelings but, for goodness sake, the girl clearly liked him back.

"Because I don't like her," he attempted, but when Halsey rolled his eyes at him and glared pointedly, he sighed. "Alright, maybe I like her a little bit but-"

"I knew it!" Halsey/Ashley exclaimed, doing a mini dance in her seat. She was excited that Michael had managed to admit it, even if it was just to her. "Why haven't you told me before now?"

Michael sighed and looked down at his lap, suddenly feeling more tired and upset than annoyed at his best friend.

"Just. . . I know she doesn't feel the same. I mean, why would she?"