★ Hear the Colours ★
Word Count: 514

Oftentimes I ask what will happen when a painter paints the seasons, does he capture it as naturally as he can, or does he just paints the nature the way he sees it, with his own style, own personality—a reminder that he’s the person who painted it; because my friend does neither. He is just so beautifully random. When he painted in Spring, he said he drew a girl with very green eyes and has her hair arranged with flowers as if they were on the fields. During Summer, he told me he painted a moist glass of cold water with ice and orange pulps, sitting alone on a window sill with clouds seen through it. Autumn was rather vague with a pair of muddy boots abandoned on a sandbox while Winter was somehow cinematic because it involves a portrait of a resting pastier sitting alone on a terrace of an old snow-covered café, still wearing his white apron and a cigarette on his hand.

Yet with seasons being the favorite subject of my friend, I wonder why he never painted moments of these seasons ending. Like how by the end of Autumn, trees are all just sticks and branches and trunks or how when December ends, tiny bits of snow melt on the pavement. I think he only paints the seasons when they are at their peaks. Blooming, hot, falling and cold.

“That would be like getting a confession from a girl who's about to die.” He tells me when I asked why. I can hear his brushstrokes painting over a canvas.

“What do you mean?”

“Seasons are but brief moments in our lives. Like humans they want us to remember them at their bests. And painting the seasons at their ends is just tragic, don’t you think so? Because we’ll have to wait for another year just to see them again.”

“It’s not like we need their consent to paint them anyway. I mean, that’s nature. It’s just always there.”

I heard you chuckle. “Yes, but since seasons won't last forever, that makes them strangely precious, too. And if you stare at them long enough it's wonderful, you do lose yourself i—”

You suddenly stopped and I can feel your stares on me. I frowned because I know why. You paused not because what you said was true, but because you think you have offended me.

I shrugged. “It’s fine.”

You remained silent and that irks me because I know you’re still there anyway. Feeling guilty.

I sigh, sinking deeper into my seat. “I am blind since I was born and everyone says to me, including you, that it's such a pity that I can't see.” I began. “But since I don't have any recollection of what nature really looks like, I can’t really appreciate its beauty so I also can’t understand you. It’s not your fault you know. This… it doesn’t really matter."

He tells me that he’s sorry anyway.

I smiled because at least he cares and tells him to just finish his painting so he can begin describing it to me.

F I N

0923

T'is originally my entry for a drabble contest. Sadly it didn't win haha! 
I didn't mention any names or characters since I wanted you as the reader to choose whomever you would like to imagine while reading the story. Comments will be greatly appreciated!