Somehow the sky at 8 am is the same color of his eyes at 8 pm, too. I’m staring upwards anyways.
A bunch of us are walking to the gym across campus when the thought crosses my mind. We’re talking about siblings.
“I have two younger brothers,” I say. “Sixteen and ten.”
The older one is my best friend. He is brilliant in hues of blue. His eyes are the same color as a cerulean crayon. He wears navy Vans that he spilled bleach on, and they are as much a part of him as his black socks and bad tan.
I love him in shades of red – anger when he won’t listen and pink when we laugh. He sings 80s’ songs in Rick Astley’s voice, and I have never hated anything more, but he lets me cry on his shoulder when I can reach it.
He is the purplest in my heart.
The younger one is half of me and more himself. He is still growing. And to me, he is bright yellow. Hair of gold, a head full of sunshine. I love him in shades of red, and together we are neon orange.
I am the person he looks up to. I love seeing who he will become. He is grand in small gestures.
I love the feeling when I take him skating, and he isn’t too big to hold my hand; when it’s 5pm, and I’m eating dorm food, and he’s sending me pictures of my cat from home.
I go through my days seeing them exist in colors around me. In the blue jeans on the person in front of me in math, I see jewel tones in bad jokes. During the walk to Spanish, I watch yellow bees sing into bigger flowers. I notice every color like part of a song, and we’re all singing Bohemian Rhapsody in my car, and we’re all part of the same red love.