Chapter 2: "Everything is fine"
Iris's POV
Three days after the exhibition, I'm in my studio working on a clay sculpture.
My fingers slide over the wet surface, feeling the texture shift and change. This is my favorite part—no need to see color. Just feel.
"Knock knock."
Adrian's voice comes from the doorway. I look up to find him leaning against the frame, a paper bag in one hand.
"Thai food," he says, lifting the bag. "Got your favorite. Green curry."
I glance at the clock on the wall. Seven PM. Our tradition. Every Wednesday night, Adrian brings dinner to my studio. We eat together, talk about our projects.
"Give me five minutes," I say. "Let me clean up."
He walks in and heads straight to the cabinet, pulling out plates and forks like he's done this a hundred times before. This studio is practically his second home.
I wash the clay off my hands while Adrian sets everything up. The smell of spices fills the room.
"So," he hands me chopsticks, "what did Martinez say about your thesis project?"
My hand freezes for a second. "Still working on it."
"Iris—"
His phone buzzes.
Adrian checks the screen, and something shifts in his expression.
"Sorry," he says. "I need to take this."
"Celeste," I hear him say. "Right now?"
I look down at my plate, pretending I'm not listening.
"A design breakthrough?" There's excitement in his voice. Raw, unfiltered excitement. "Really? You sure this'll work?"
Pause.
"Okay, I'm coming. Yeah, I know. This is important."
He ends the call and turns to me, apology written all over his face.
"Iris, I—"
"Go," I cut him off, trying to keep my voice light. "Sounds important. I've got work to do anyway."
"You sure? We haven't even—"
"I'm sure. Go, Adrian."
He hesitates, then stands up.
"I'll make it up to you," he says. "Promise."
After the door closes, I stare at the two containers of food, still steaming.
Green curry. He remembered my favorite.
But he left anyway.
For Celeste. For that project that makes him light up.
I push my plate away and walk to the easel in the corner.
It's a painting I've been attempting—trying to work with color. I've been using that app on my phone, the one that identifies paint tubes for me.
But what comes out is lifeless.
Just colors slapped together. No soul.
For the first time, I really hate this thing that's wrong with me.
If I could see color, if I could talk about "cobalt blue transitions to ultramarine" the way Celeste does, would Adrian use that same excited tone when he talks to me?
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
It's two AM and I'm still in the studio.
Failed attempts are piled up around the easel. I've tried over and over, but nothing feels right.
Color is just a concept to me. I know the sky is "supposed" to be blue, grass is "supposed" to be green. But all I see are different shades of gray.
I pick up my phone and open the color assistant app.
"This is cadmium red," the mechanical voice announces.
Cadmium red. I know it's red. A bright, warm red.
But to me, it looks almost identical to the green paint tube sitting next to it.
My phone buzzes. A text from Adrian.
"Sorry about tonight. Major breakthrough with the design. We were working through the plans. Lunch tomorrow?"
I stare at the screen.
I should be happy. Adrian has his own life, his own projects, his own... future.
And I shouldn't expect anything.
We're just friends. We've always been just friends.
I type back: "Got a meeting tomorrow. Rain check."
Send.
Then I turn off my phone and go back to the easel.
But I find myself just sitting there, staring at colors I'll never truly understand.
For the first time, I wonder if things would be different if I wasn't so broken.
If I was whole, would Adrian...
No.
I shake my head.
That kind of thinking is dangerous.
"Iris, have a seat."
Professor Martinez's office always makes me nervous. The walls are covered with award-winning work from his students—all of them bright, colorful oil paintings.
I sit down, fingers twisting together.
"I've looked at your thesis proposal," he says, adjusting his glasses. "I'll be honest, Iris. I'm concerned."
"I know I'm a bit behind—"
"It's not just the timeline," he interrupts. "It's the direction. You know the institute has clear requirements for thesis projects. Students need to demonstrate comprehensive ability. Including..."
He pauses.
"Including color work."
My heart sinks.
"Professor Martinez, I know it's challenging for me, but I've been trying—"
"I know you've been trying, Iris." His tone softens slightly. "Your sculpture work is excellent. Your understanding of form and texture surpasses most students here. But..."
There's that "but" again.
"But the art world is brutal. Your color blindness, in the visual arts field, it's a... significant obstacle."
"So you're suggesting I...?"
"I'm suggesting you consider shifting to art history. Or curation." He leans back in his chair. "These fields still require artistic understanding, but they don't demand that you create with color yourself. You could use your analytical skills, your critical thinking—"
"But I want to create." My voice comes out small.
"I understand. But sometimes we need to be realistic." Martinez sighs. "I'm saying this for your own good, Iris. I don't want to see you pour all this time and energy into something that might... not work out."
Might not work out.
The words hit like a punch.
"Think about it," he says. "You still have time to change course."
When I walk out of his office, my legs feel weak.
Down the hall, some classmates are discussing their thesis projects. They're talking about color schemes, visual impact, emotional expression.
And I can't even tell basic colors apart.
That night, Adrian texts: "Hey, how was your day?"
I stare at the message for a long time.
Finally, I type three words: "Everything is fine."
Then I turn off my phone.
Because I don't know how to tell him—
I'm losing the only thing that makes me feel like I'm worth something.
