Blue.
Little Boy Blue. Tear Drop. Blue Angel.
I remembered seeing them on those paint cards you got from the hardware store. Each shade had a unique name. I remembered reading those to my mom when she took me shopping once. I was seven.
Sometimes she called me her Little Boy Blue. Maybe that was why I liked the name so much. I was always her Blue, her little boy.
I hadn't been called that in a long time.
I used to feel blue. But the dark kind of blue, the hopeless kind of blue. The kind that maybe would have been called "Tear Drop" because it was so sad.
I wasn't a little boy anymore and I wasn't her Blue. I wasn't anyone's Blue.
I wasn't blue at all.
I was colorless.
YOU ARE READING
A Single Stroke ✔️
Teen FictionEmery Cohen loves to paint. Painting is his heart and soul; it is the very reason he exists. He believes all it takes to change the world is to add a splash of color in all the gray places. He quickly learns nothing is so simple. Emery can hardly k...
