People liked to laugh at me. They laugh at how slow I run, they laugh at my math grades, they even laugh at my untied shoelaces. However, there is one thing I'm good at. Art. My teacher used to tell my uncaring parents that I was unstoppable when a pencil was in my hand, like a bird released from being caged, she said. It started off by putting crayons onto paper, but soon I was doing murals on street walls as commission work. My personal favourite is by using spray paint. It can get kind of dirty, but I loved the way the colours seeped into my fingers, staining my clothes and my hair... And on the day I met him, I was wearing black clothes with white paint dots as hair clips.

“Looking good as always, sweet cheeks.” a familiar voice sounded, and I sighed. It was the shopkeeper’s son, who was awfully crude for his age. I peeked at him, and as usual, he was checking out my behind. I tried to straighten my body so my wouldn’t jut out so much, but it’s difficult to do so on a ladder. I climbed down to get a fresh coat of paint even though I didn’t need it, but the rascal blocked me before I could fully place two feet on the ground.

“Move,” I grunted. “I want to get off.”

“I can help you with that,” he waggled his eyebrows at me suggestively, and I rolled my eyes.

“Look, shouldn’t you respect me? You’re only ten. I’ll tell on your dad if I have to.”

His eyes widened at the mention of his father, but he quickly recovered and scoffed. “W-whatever, loser.” I chuckled at the sight of his defeat, hurriedly returning inside. Before I could dip my paintbrush into the tray, I was interrupted yet again.

“Wow… it’s coming out really nicely.”

I looked up to see a young man so beautiful that none of my work, none, can compete to. The first thing I noticed was his skin: pure, pure white, the colour that would probably be named as 'New Blankets'. He was wearing this leather jacket over a striped shirt, hands lazily in the pockets of his ripped jeans. His pink lips were parted slightly, mouth agape at the half-finished mural I was working on. The fringe of his hair stopped perfectly above his eyes which had huge dark rings under them, but his irises looked so alive, so awake. Those same eyes flickered to me, bringing me back to reality. His mouth moved. “Are you the one who did this?”

“Oh, yes…” At this point, I thought he’d nod and leave, giving me no chance of seeing this person ever again, but miraculously- miraculously!- he stepped closer to inspect each of colour carefully.

“I couldn’t even colour in the lines when I was still in school,” he chuckled, a rich sound that sent fireworks exploding in me. My legs somehow edge myself nearer to him.

“I didn’t either, I always did what I wanted to do. My teacher used to hate me for not following instructions, but I told her that art shouldn’t be forced.” My voice was shaky, but he didn’t seem to notice as his grin grew even brighter at my words. He stopped facing the wall to face me, and for once in my life, I was self-conscious. I wished I was wearing a dress, or at least something clean, but god knows there isn’t anything that isn’t tainted with paint in my closet.

“Did it snow?” he asked, referring to the white dots in my hair. My hand shot to my head, desperately trying to hide the mess.

“Sorry! T-this is a messy job so… my hair… it happens…” My voice trailed off, not knowing what else to say. The burn in my cheeks only became stronger.

“Why are you saying sorry? It just means you’re a walking piece of art.”

My hands didn't lower themselves. Instead they froze, and my heart did too. It was like time had stopped, but it didn't, because the fireworks in me were showing colours I didn't know existed.