“Different, yet the same…

Colours In My Mind

I jolted upright, my pencil hovering over the blank page, my thoughts still tangled in the red and blue chaos of last night’s dream.

“I know you’re my friend,” the voice continued, half amused, half exasperated, “but hey come into the world for once. It’s still spinning without you.”

My friend my one tether to reality stood there, grinning, arms crossed. She had that look, the one that could pull me out of my daydreams no matter how deep I sank.

“I just… I was thinking,” I murmured, but the words felt hollow, even to me. My mind was still haunted by the dream. By him.

My friend rolled her eyes. “Thinking, huh? Or imagining some mysterious stranger to fall in love with?”

I flushed. “It’s not like that.”

But I knew it was. That spark the pull I couldn’t explain was already there, whispering through the quiet corners of my carefully ordered world.

“Anyway,” I said, shaking my head to clear it, “I have to open the studio. Ciao!”

As I stepped out, the sunlight spilled over the city streets, and for a moment, I let my mind wander, letting the dream fade into the edges of my thoughts. I lived in this European, traditional city, a place that felt alive with history yet suspended in time.

In winter, the streets were ghostly and mysterious. Fog curled around the beige buildings, lamplights flickered like secrets, and every alley seemed to whisper stories of the past. The city moved slowly, as if holding its breath, and I felt like a lone observer in a world that existed just for me.

In summer, the city transformed. Sunlight bounced off the crystal-blue waters of the nearby beach, and the streets seemed to dance with life. Every building gleamed in warm beige, the parks stretched endlessly, and walking through them felt like stepping through centuries of history. Every cobblestone, every archway, every fountain carried the weight of stories that had unfolded long before I arrived.

It reminded me a little of Rome, but it was French its old towns carefully preserved, a blend of elegance and quiet magic. In this city, whether ghostly in winter or golden in summer, the past and present coexisted, and I felt like a small but willing witness to it all.

The studio smelled of paint and turpentine, familiar and comforting. I ran my fingers over the blank canvas, feeling its texture under my fingertips, imagining the colours I would spill onto it today. My mind still hummed with the echoes of the dream the red and blue, the faceless figure, the touch that had left a trace I couldn’t shake.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the memory of those colours guide me. Red for fire, for passion I had never dared to ignite. Blue for calm, for the life I clung to like a shield. Somewhere between them, the spark lingered, elusive and intoxicating.

I picked up my brush and began to move it across the canvas, each stroke deliberate, each shade carefully chosen. My art was my anchor, the language I understood best. And yet… even here, in this controlled sanctuary, the feeling of him hovered at the edges of my mind.

My painting was in my hands, the canvas alive with the red and blue pieces swirling in my mind the face I had been daydreaming about taking shape under my brush.

The studio door rang. At first, I didn’t hear it; my thoughts were tangled in colour and imagination.

Then a voice called out clear, insistent, impossible:

“Hey… hey… you!”

I jumped, the brush slipping, smudging the wet paint across the canvas. My heart raced, my chest tightened, and the world seemed to pause.

I turned and froze.

There he was. Not a dream, not a flicker in the corner of my mind, but real. His body relaxed yet commanding, eyes sharp, almost… piercing. My heart stung, my breath caught, and all the careful order I had built around my life trembled like fragile glass.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other. No words only the electric weight of recognition or was it destiny? hanging between us.

And just like that, the quiet world I had built for myself began to shatter.

“Don’t you know how to present yourself?” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. “Why do you scream like that? Look what you did this was my last drop of paint!”

He blinked, unphased, but a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

“Me?” he said calmly. “I called you three times. You didn’t answer.”

I threw my hands in the air, exasperated. “Three times? You think shouting is polite? You’ve ruined—”

I stopped myself. My brush trembled in my hand, paint smearing across the canvas. Part of me didn’t want to be angry.But the arrogance. The way he stood there like he belonged. The slight lift of his brow, the sharpness of his eyes it stirred something in me I couldn’t explain.

“What do you want?” I snapped, trying to regain control!!!!