My life up until now has been interestingly interesting. Some might say that they'd kill to have my life, because why wouldn't they? I'm the son of the richest business man in North America: I have every possibility in the world offered to me on a silver platter. But I don't want it. I never have.

You know how they say everyone wants what they don't have? People with straight hair want curly hair, people with curly want straight hair, people with tan skin want light skin, and so forth. Well, I'm the guy who lives in a gated mansion with houses all over the world and an army of servants at my disposal, but all I want—all I've actually ever wanted, really—is a simple life. I know you've heard this story a billion times, but what's one more?

To me, Nico di Angelo, son of Hades, king of the Underworld (just kidding, that's just the title they give him)(though it would be really cool if that was real), everything is a big deal. At least that's what my private teacher says. She says I should be happy and grateful towards my father for giving me all these opportunities and blah blah blah. I always forget to listen. Besides, what is safety if I am not free?

Every time I leave the house, my dad insists I have four armed men follow me, or that I just stay home altogether. Apparently being the son of a billionaire makes you a target. Go figure.

However, my story is different than other stories. My story is in black and white. I have never seen colour, only heard of it. My mom used to tell me stories about how I'm special and how only certain people are born like that. She said that it meant that everything would be black and white until I locked eyes with my soulmate, whose eyes would be the most vibrant and radiant colour I'll ever see. I never actually believed her; I mean really? She's always been able to see colour, and so has my dad, and so has everyone else that I've met. I had no reason to believe her. I'm nearly twenty and I still don't believe her. But it was still a nice story to think about aside from colour blindness.

It haunts me more than I'd like to admit. When I leave at night, sneaking out without anyone noticing, all my other senses are heightened. And I think, metaphorically, if someone would really be able to bring colour into this gray-scaled life, maybe life wouldn't be so dull.

~

My dad is gonna kill me.

Let me explain. My dad is a business man, and part of his job is ensuring that whatever high-rep field I decide to go into, I'll have the knowledge to become the best and the greatest and whatever. He thinks he'll accomplish this by bringing me to all of his events and meetings so I can learn proper "etiquette" when dealing with wealthy old men. To be completely honest, it all bores me to pieces, but I have no choice but to go along with it anyway.

I've been late to four meetings already. I've skipped a couple interviews. In short, my dad is less than pleased than me.

Thoughts like that all call out to me as my driver drops me off at the curb and I'm left sprinting towards the building.

My shirt is untucked, my half-tied tie keeps whipping me in the face, and I'm scared to see the unkind fate of my tousled hair. No matter, no matter, I've still got three minutes and forty two seconds... forty one... forty...

Something slams into me, sending me falling hard on my ass. Unfortunately for me, they were holding a tray of coffees that now lay empty on the ground, their contents seeping through my white shirt. I swear under my breath, balling my hands into fists. I don't have time for this.

The person offers me a hand up, saying something rapid and incomprehensible.  I subconsciously tune them out, worrying more about how I'm gonna clean up and make it to the meeting in... a minute, thirty seconds.

I stand up—without their help, mind you—and freeze as I'm brushing filth off of me. A blur of—of something, something indescribable rushes past the person who knocked me down. They brush against my shoulder in their hurry and the strangest thing happens. The world comes alive, just for a second, like the flash of a camera. Before I know it, I'm chasing after them.

My head spins and I feel like I'm gonna throw up, but I have so much adrenaline coursing through my veins that I hardly notice it. I have one goal, and it's getting away from me the more I have the need to slow down. I try calling out, yelling at them to stop, turning people over in my way to check if they had also seen the blur or where they could've gone. Most people just shake their head, bewildered and frightened. Useless.

"Stop running!" I shout so loud through the crowd of filing people that I'm sure everyone until the next block heard me. For a moment the person stops and I take the opportunity to catch my breath, which was probably my first mistake. I feel the adrenaline seep out of me and my body slows down, my head woozy. "Stop running," I gasp out, running a shaky hand through my hair.

The blur tilts their head, as if I were some strange extra-terrestrial and they were entirely conflicted about my existence. And then I realize why. They must be seeing the same thing as me. Blurs of colour filter in and out of focus, shots of yellow and green and blue, the words for the colours appearing in my head at the same time.

Then they turn, and everything is black and white again. My mom's old story rings in my head now, making everything hurt. My feet, my neck, my lungs, my ears; it's like someone has set me on fire in the fucking desert. I have to keep going. I have to find them.

My feet pound against the pavement as I push past slow-moving bystanders and I finally see where they were heading. The subway. Frantically, I search the entire station, my desperation growing as my hope disintegrates. They're gone. My meeting started eight minutes ago. I sink to the ground in defeat.

~

Two months and fourteen days have passed. I received all my acceptance letters for various universities across the country (thanks to my last name and my father's bank account, most likely) and I decided on Stanford law, 2 939 miles from home. I think my dad was happy to be able to get rid of me, as he believes he was able to teach me everything I should know. If that meant no more meetings, I was okay with it. As for law, I think I'm going to like it for a change.

Despite everything, despite going down to the subway more times in the last couple months than I have in my entire life, I stopped looking for whoever I had seen that morning. It's too big a burden and I'm still young, is what I tell myself continuously (I'm working on believing it). May our paths cross again someday, I will not let them go so easily.

~

It's been roughly a year since I last spotted my "soulmate" or whatever. With school starting up and getting settled in a new state, I haven't really thought of it. Between responsibilities and my studies, it's been pushed so far in my mind that I went back to not believing the stories. There was no such thing as a soulmate. Just because my vision sparked once, it doesn't mean anything. I still see in black and white.

But then I think of it again.

I'm sitting on a stool with a drink in my hand at the party of my friend's friend's friend. I don't really know anyone here, as it is mostly med-school students, but that never stops a little fun. Apparently they really know how to party.

The night goes by in a blur as the hours turn into seconds. I find myself on the couch at four in the morning with a wii controller in my hands, playing mario kart with one of the guys. The race is tight, we're both on our last lap, practically tied and battling for first place—with a last effort, I press down on the 2 button, as if it would make me go faster, and cross the finish line successfully. I whoop and people chant with me, tapping me on the back as if it were a great accomplishment.

I turn to shake my competitors hand, my face still lit up with glee, and my world stops. Literally. The second our fingers come into contact, the world blazes with colour ten times more potent than last time. The world comes alive.

"It's you," I say dumbly, the smile on my face fading. I blink excessively, trying to adjust my vision to this new exposure. The expression on his face is nothing less than the way I feel. "I mean—wow—"

"No way," he says, dragging his hand down his face in distress. "I'm so sorry—I just—do you see it too?" A nervous, exhilarated laugh escapes him.

"Yeah," I grin, probably looking like a gaping fool. I can see him fully now : wavy locks on blond hair, bright blue eyes, constellations of freckles dotting every corner of him. I look around at the people surrounding us, gaping, confused, and a little drunk.

"I'm Will," he beams with that same childish smirk.

"Nico," I reply.

We spend the entire night talking, as if we're old friends who are just catching up on the past twenty years or so. I learn that the reason he left that day on the subway was because he missed his first interview for Stanford and he was late for his second one, just barely catching the subway.

Funny how things work out, huh?

~

Eight months pass. I'm hanging up an ugly painting I made in one of those art night poetry slam thingies. I thought it was hideous, but Will insisted we hang it up to expose my talent. He sneaks up behind me, straightening it out.

"Looks..." he tilts his head (in admiration, obviously), "...pensive. Thoughtful. Imaginative?"

I nudge him in the stomach, "Admit it, Solace. You hate it. I hate it. We can hate it together, babe."

"Not gonna lie, I think it looks great." He shrugs, kissing me briefly on the cheek before plopping on our couch with a magazine. I plop down beside him, taking in our apartment.

"This place is a disaster," I groan, thinking about all the work we're gonna have to put in to keep it from falling apart. Since I moved away from home, I've decided to stop relying on my dad for everything. Thus, explaining the rundown space in the sketchy neighbourhood. I stop myself to rethink nearly every day.

However, we both got mediocre part-time jobs and it's close to campus, so it's not that big a deal.

"I like it," Will says, tapping me on the head with his magazine. "It has character."

"What—like my painting?" I snort, referring to our only decoration.

"Exzzzzactly. You got it! Good job."

I bow in mock-appreciation and relish in the sound of his unkempt laugher. I'm not yet used to having so much colour in my life. Every time he enters a room, every time he speaks, every time he breathes, I'm met with a new array of lighting. Sometimes, we'll drive out at four in the morning just to see the colours of the sun rise, or we'll travel to places to see the greens and the blues and the yellows. Every morning, every day, every evening with Will Solace is a new adventure. Somehow, my mother was right. Thank god for that.

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