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There’s no color in the dark. That’s crucial to know. Color is what happens when body and mind lend meaning to lightwaves, to the ancient power of the universe and its invisible hail of stellar shards that collide with the fragile, impermanent things that we’re made of. That we surround ourselves with.
There’s nothing wrong with Lee Shiguk. He’s a good man. He’s kind to animals, a helpful colleague, always holds the elevator when he notices someone running at the closing doors. There’s nothing wrong with him. He wants a wife and a flat in a nice part of the city, close to transit so his future kids will have an easy trip to good schools.
There’s nothing wrong with him, but there was no light in the suffocating space between them, and there’s no color in the dark.
Maybe that's what Jihyo wanted. Or wanted to want, pale gray. The strongest colors in her life had flared too brightly; she’d panicked and snuffed them out. Life with Shiguk posed no such danger. No excitement, no heartbreak, no pain. Monochrome, numb.
Numb, until she wasn’t. Until she looked in the mirror and realized how she'd withered in the dark.
But Heo Bora...
Bora is light, flashing, sparkling. Bora is color. She’s cutesy nail stickers that are always half-peeled away. She’s bright green combat boots that end up with bright purple laces when the black ones finally snap. She’s Harajuku-cool bomber jackets and ajumma-chic sun visors in neon blues and yellows. She’s cheap toy jewelry strewn across the bathroom counter as she digs for that flower ring she was just wearing yesterday, where fuck could it've gone?!
Jihyo stops in the doorway and watches her, the crease between her eyebrows, her red and gold kimono tied loosely around her waist. Bora glances up, meets her eyes in the mirror.
Bora is the orange velvet sofa covered in blankets and pillows in exotic patterns and hues. She’s the thrifted, fluffy pink rug under the milk-crate-and-window-glass coffee table. She’s kaleidoscope suncatchers in the windows. She’s the set of rainbow ceramic knives in a mirrored knife block on the kitchen counter. She bought them online on a whim.
“It’s a housewarming gift!” she’d declared as she slotted them each into their neat little places.
“You don’t buy yourself housewarming gifts,” Jihyo told her.
Bora hip-checked her gently. “Says who?”
“Jihyo-yah,” Bora says now. Jihyo clutches her mug and tries not to think about the colors that only Bora can see.
“Mmm?”
“Come help me look.”
Bora smells like knock-off designer perfume and the cigarettes they buy by the carton, now, and share. Her hair smells like white peaches; it’s soft and fluffy and everywhere, all the time. It’s stuck to the walls of the shower, to the blankets on the sofa, to Jihyo’s pillow where she laid her head yesterday night and sighed, “I’m fuckin’ wiped out. I don’t think I can make it back to my room, babe.”
Jihyo brings her coffee to her lips. Drowns the smell of menthol and peaches under coffee and chocolate. Sips so the pink in her cheeks can be traced back to something other than the memory of waking up to Bora's cheek on her shoulder and Bora's hand curled around her waist.
“Yah.” A nudge to her side.
“Mmm?”
“You’re not helping.”
That soft smile. Should’ve stayed at the doorway, Jihyo. No, should’ve gone back to the kitchen. Shouldn’t be shoulder to shoulder with Heo Bora in your postage stamp of a bathroom. Shouldn’t be close enough to smell her pretty, two-toned hair, or be reminded that the only things under that kimono are a pair of yoga pants and a bra patterned with cartoon cats.
“Yah! Earth to Hong Jihyo.” Bora leans in.
Jihyo's face is warm except for one place, at the crest of her cheekbone. There it burns, blue like a flame.
Bora’s breath smells like smoke and toothpaste, and her chapstick smells like toasted vanilla and raspberries. Her hair is gold and copper, her irises chestnut. A tiny sticker of a heart is peeling off her index finger, and it snags on Jihyo's fringe when Bora tucks it behind her ear.
The strongest colors in Jihyo's life flared so brightly that she panicked and tried to snuff them out, but no torch has ever burned quite like Heo Bora.