'In Colours' by Mileva Anastasiadou

The first time boyfriend left, her glasses changed color. It was foggy at first, the girl felt lost, she had never smoked before, he’s not worth it, her mom said, the girl wasn’t used to the smoke yet, she couldn’t tell the difference, then the scenery was clear, clear but black, black as the night, the moonless dark night, black as sadness, or worry, or guilt.

Boyfriend came back and glasses turned pink, like baby skin or joy, or bliss. She smokes, but not too often, it’s under control, she tells him and hands him the cigarette, then falls all over him and holds him tight, but boyfriend wants out, he needs air, he says, he needs space, but the girl won’t let go, we’ll stay here, she says, to which he replies, we both have better things to do, and she fights to keep him, while he walks out the door, it’s better than any alternative, she yells, yet he insists, that just because it was nice for a while, it’s not nice forever, and the white army in her awakens, resists change, fights for stagnation, she’s still lost, she wants more of him, all of him.

Boyfriend left and glasses turned red, like roses, or poppies, or anger. The girl smokes and smokes, a pack, two packs, like life depends on the smoke she breathes in, like she inhales freedom, independence, confidence, but mom looks at her, she smokes too, how pathetic, she says, the girl nods, but she feels the smoke empowering her, raising her into the adult she’ll soon be, now that she’s heartbroken, now that growing is inevitable. Mom wonders who made smoking a symbol, who first thought of exploiting sadness, to sell confidence in the from of tiny slow bursting bombs. Smart move, the girl says, but won’t quit, not now, she needs all confidence she can have, all internalized symbols she can buy, the comfort of repetition. Mom stares at her, touches her hand, she looks worried. I’m cool, says the girl, like she’s alright, but she’s not alright, she’s angered, sad, lost, she’s not cool, but she looks cool, she thinks.

Boyfriend comes back, like nothing’s wrong, but glasses turned gold this time, like nature’s first green, like sunsets, or new dawns, like treasures, like silence, or resilience, or strength. Boyfriend sounds creepy, not tender, not sweet, when he says, I’ve been watching you, and he’s grinning, or the girl thinks he is, and she’s already singing inside, ah la la la la long long li long long long, but he can’t hear, he wouldn’t even recognize the song, that’s how far apart we’ve grown, the girl thinks, she’s a circle breaker, she’s strong, she’s found, she thinks in colors, in rainbows, she no longer needs his words or symbols, as she turns around and throws away the cigarette, the grayish shades she can do without.