The week after meeting Elara again, Adrian felt something unusual: anticipation. Not for work, not for the weekend, but for life itself.
It started small.
On Monday morning, instead of his usual plain black tie, he picked one with faint blue stripes. No one commented on it, but Adrian caught himself glancing at it in reflections, surprised by how much lighter he felt in something so simple.
By Wednesday, he stopped at the flower stand near the café. The florist raised an eyebrow when Adrian asked for "something cheerful." He walked away with a bouquet of sunflowers, their golden heads far too bright for his minimalist apartment. At first, they felt out of place — loud, almost rebellious. But by evening, as their glow filled the room, Adrian realized he liked the way they challenged the silence.
On Friday, he took a different route home. Instead of the train, he walked — passing streets he had never bothered to explore, hearing snippets of conversation, watching children chase pigeons, discovering a mural splashed across a brick wall. It felt like he had stepped into a world that had been waiting for him all along.
Yet alongside this awakening came unease. Every time Adrian felt joy — real, unfiltered joy — a voice inside whispered: This isn't you
You don't belong in this kind of life. He worried what people at work would think if he started changing. He feared losing control of the order he had built, the careful grey structure that kept him safe.
Color was beautiful, yes. But it was unpredictable. Messy. Exposed.
One evening, as he stared at the sunflowers on his table, Adrian felt torn between two versions of himself: the man who blended into the background, and the man who wanted to step into the painting.
For the first time, he realized that choosing color wasn't just about noticing beauty. It was about having the courage to be seen.