Blind to You

Iris's POV

Fifteen years of loving him, and all it takes is one woman who can see red and green.

Champagne bubbles rise in crystal glasses all around me, and the gallery hums with polite conversation and restrained laughter. The Boston Institute of Arts annual exhibition VIP preview night—one of my least favorite nights of the year.

I'm tucked away in a corner of the exhibition hall, fingers tight around my champagne flute, watching Adrian across the room.

He's standing in front of an oil painting with a woman. A stunning woman.

She's wearing a black silk dress, dark hair swept into an elegant chignon, and she moves with the kind of confidence I'll never have. Right now she's leaning in close to Adrian, her slender fingers pointing at the canvas.

"Look at this color transition," her voice carries even from this distance, crisp and clear. "From cobalt blue to ultramarine, then this hint of cerulean—the artist's control over color is incredible."

Adrian nods, and there's something in his eyes I don't see often. Excitement. Pure, unfiltered excitement.

I look down at my own champagne, the liquid glinting under the lights. At least I know it's gold—one of the few colors I can actually identify.

Red. Green. They're just a muddled grayish-brown blur to me.

Color blindness. In an art school, those words are basically a curse.

"Iris!" Someone calls my name, and I look up, forcing a smile onto my face.

A collector is walking toward me with Professor Martinez trailing behind. My advisor.

"This is Mr. Blackwell," Martinez says. "He's quite interested in your sculpture series."

I set down my champagne and shake the collector's hand. Talking about sculpture—that's safe territory. Sculpture doesn't need color. Just form, texture, spatial awareness.

That's why I switched to sculpture in the first place.

But my eyes keep drifting back to Adrian.

The woman has her arm linked through his now, and they're laughing together as they move to the next piece.

They look right together. A perfect match.

The champagne tastes bitter on my tongue. I set the glass down on a nearby table, my hand shaking slightly.

How did we get here? I can still remember the first time he defended me, back when we were just kids on that playground—

"Color-blind freak! Color-blind freak can't paint right!"

Eight-year-old me is crouched in the corner of the elementary school playground, tears streaming down my face. Torn pieces of drawing paper are scattered at my feet—a picture of autumn trees I'd spent my entire lunch break working on.

But all the colors are wrong. I mixed up the reds and greens, and what came out is an ugly muddy brown.

"You don't belong in art class!" the ringleader shouts, laughing. "You can't even tell colors apart!"

"That's enough."

A voice. Cold and angry.

I look up to see Adrian standing there. At nine, he's already taller than most kids our age, and right now he looks dangerous.

"What did you say?" The boy turns around, and when he sees it's Adrian, his face changes.

Adrian steps forward and grabs the kid by his collar, lifting him up.

"I said that's enough." His voice is quiet, but each word cuts like ice. "If I ever hear you call her that again, or touch anything of hers, I'll make you sorry. Got it?"

The boy nods frantically, and Adrian releases him. He stumbles away, practically running.

Adrian crouches down and starts picking up the torn pieces of my drawing, one by one.

"Stop crying, Iris," he says quietly. "Your drawing is good."

"But the colors—"

"Colors don't matter," he interrupts. "You know some of the greatest art in the world is black and white? You see the world differently than other people. That's not a defect. It makes you special."

That night, Adrian's parents—Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne—come to my foster home to pick me up.

My parents died in a car accident two months ago. I don't have anyone else.

"Iris," Mrs. Hawthorne kneels down, gently wiping the tears from my face. "We'd like to adopt you. Make you part of our family. Would you like that?"

I look at Adrian. He holds out his hand to me.

"You'll have your own room," he says. "Right next to mine. I'll protect you."

I take his hand.

From that day on, Adrian's always been there. At school, when people mocked my "weird" artwork, he'd step in front of me. At home, he'd help with homework, teach me how to understand the world in grayscale.

He's been my protector. My family.

My best friend.

And my deepest secret—I love him. I've always loved him.

"Iris Brennan?"

The woman's voice pulls me back to reality. I turn to find her standing in front of me, a friendly smile on her lips.

"Yes," I manage, trying to sound normal.

"I'm Celeste," she extends her hand. "I just saw your sculpture series. Tactile Memories? It's incredible. The way you use texture, the spatial awareness—really moving."

"Thanks," I say, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm.

"I especially love how you use different materials to convey emotion," she continues. "The coldness of marble, the warmth of wood, the fragility of clay. You don't need color to tell a complete story."

My heart tightens. Does she know about my color blindness?

"Adrian mentioned you," she says, as if reading my confusion. "He told me you're the most talented artist he's ever met."

Adrian talked about me?

"Have you two... known each other long?" I ask carefully.

"Oh, we just reconnected recently," Celeste smiles. "I've been working in London, just got back to Boston. Adrian and I are collaborating on a project now."

"A project?"

"A dream project," her eyes light up. "Honestly, I've never seen Adrian so invested in anything. He's been so excited about this project. Every time he talks about it, he just lights up."

My stomach twists.

"What's the project about?"

"Can't say too much yet," Celeste says with a mysterious smile. "But trust me, once it's finished, it'll be amazing."

Then Adrian walks over.

"Iris," he says my name, his voice soft. "I've been looking for you."

He glances at Celeste. "You two met?"

"Of course," Celeste says, still smiling. "Iris is incredibly talented."

Adrian looks at me, his eyes warm. But all I can think about is his "dream project" with Celeste.

The project that makes him "light up."

And here I am, can't even tell colors apart.

How could I ever make him light up?