Page 70 of Don’t Be A Stranger

I know the grass is green and the sky is blue. I can differentiate lighter or darker colors based on what shade it is, but I can’t imagine something I’ve never seen before.

“Eggplant is also a shade of purple,” Summer says.

I hum, never really understanding the analogy but I like hearing Summer and Lily try to come up with different foods that match a color.

Their theory was that if I can’t see the color, I can “taste it.”

“What about that one?” I gesture to a different painting, purely enjoying the sound of Summer’s voice.

She tilts her head back and forth, focusing on the painting of a cluster of eyeballs.

“Broccoli,” she says abruptly. “With a side of baked potatoes and…the sky.”

I laugh. “I’ve never eaten the sky before.”

“You know it’s blue.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what that looks like,” I playfully argue.

Summer huffs. “Ok, fine. There’s blueberries.”

Okay. I like blueberries. Sometimes a little tart but other times really sweet. It’s a hit or miss.

“Why don’t you do this?” Summer finally turns to look at me. “Bring some of your art here?”

Right, because bringing my lifeless art into what I can only assume is a colorful place and watch it collect dust is exactly what I want to do.

When I roll my eyes, Summer does the same as she turns away to sort through a rack of graphic shirts. “I’ve seen artists online who are also colorblind and their work is amazing.”

Yeah, but I feel like you’d have to create exceptional things and I just…don’t.

I sigh. “I don’t know. I haven’t really been working on anything.”

Summer seems to catch onto the lie almost immediately. “I’ve caught you multiple times working on something and each time you hide that goddamn sketchbook. That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I already told you—”

“And I don’t believe you.”

“Summer.” I step closer to her and lower my voice so that the girl at the counter—who is most definitely watching us—doesn’t hear. “People look at art to feel something. They’re not going to necessarily want…bland food.” I decide to continue with her analogy.

Summer begins to hold up shirts to my body, but we both know she just needs something to do with her hands.

Her next words are soft. Gentle. The same way she sounds when she’s tired or saying something that’s important to her.

“I just want you to have the things you want and if this is what you want, then I say go for it.”

The idea of having to come in here and hand over art I’m not completely proud of doesn’t sound appealing.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head and begin looking through the same rack of shirts. “I’ve just never thought about it.”

I have, actually. It’s why I stepped foot in Declan’s in the first place. Now every time I come here with a few pieces of my work in my backpack, my determination to pull them out and ask about getting them in the boutique quickly dwindles. I always chicken out just to come back a week later.

Rinse and repeat.

Because suddenly in those moments, everything that I was proud of no longer felt good enough.

Try harder, Jaejoon.