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wobbled. Fear clawed at my chest. I lost control and was pitched headlong into the grass, the world spinning in a blur of green. My dad’s heavy footsteps crunched through the gravel as he rushed to my side. ​“Are you okay?” he panted, eyes wide. ​I blinked up at him, then down at my dirt-streaked knees and scratched palms. I couldn’t stop the beam that began to split my face. I began to laugh. It started small, a giggle, and then it bubbled up, unstoppable. “I biked,” I gasped, between breaths. “I really did it.” ​He pulled me to my feet, brushing off the dirt. “Good job.” In that moment, with the scent of crushed grass around us and the echo of my laughter still hanging in the air, I felt courage take root in my heart. My world lit with emerald green. 

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It wasn't until years later that I would look back and wish I had stayed, that I had chosen connection over comfort. I wish to remember my culture in more than the curve of my eyes and color of my hair. Regret is a quiet thing, a soft whisper that lingers. The color lavender trickled into my world.

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The kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of ginger and garlic sizzling in oil, mingling with the scent of the mothballs that always clung to my grandparents’ lavender clothes. I always adored those elementary school summers, when my grandparents flew a thousand miles across the Pacific ocean to see us, the summers I wished would stay forever. My grandma’s hands moved like a dance as she folded the dough around the filling, each jiaozi mouthwatering and precise. Our kitchen glowed with soft orange light, a nest of the smell of cloves and Mandarin chatter. “Like this,” she instructed, guiding my small hands through the motions. I tried to follow, but my fingers fumbled, the dough slipping from my grasp. “I’m no good at this,” I muttered, frustration seeping into my words. My mom clicked her tongue, a tsking sound, from across the counter, where she was rolling out more dough. “It takes practice, just like the piano. You’ll get it.” But I was too impatient, too eager to lose myself in the pages of a book instead of fumbling with sticky dough. “I’ll be right back,” I said, already stepping away, leaving the unfinished jiaozi behind. As I settled into the couch with my book, the sounds of their chatter and laughter drifted from the kitchen. A pang twisted in my chest, but I pushed it aside, burying myself in the story. It wasn’t until years later that I would look back and wish I had stayed, that I had chosen connection over comfort. I wish to remember my culture in more than the curve of my eyes and color of my hair. Regret is a quiet thing, a soft whisper that lingers. The color lavender trickled into my world. 

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The room was stark, the walls an unforgiving shade of blinding white that seemed to swallow the light. Machines beeped softly, a steady reminder of time slipping away. My friend’s hand was cold in mine, thin as paper, the skin stretched tight over fragile bones. “Hey,” I whispered, my voice breaking the sterile silence. “I brought you something.” I placed the bouquet of pink carnations on the bedside table, their vibrant petals a defiant burst of color in the washed-out room. His eyes flickered open, a weak smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, the effort of speaking too much. His parents were in the room too, silent and stiff, their presence a cold weight in the air.  “God will take care of him,” his mother murmured, her voice tight with forced belief. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak. I had never prayed before, but as I knelt beside

his bed, hands clasped, I prayed as fervently as a fifth-grader could. I prayed for a miracle that never came. When he was gone, the room seemed even more blindingly white, the color drained from everything but those wilting pink carnations. Grief tinged my world with white spots, a loss of color from each loss throughout the years. ​

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The bus lurched to a stop, the smell of diesel fumes mingling with the crisp evening air. I hesitated before stepping on, the unfamiliarity of it all making my heart race. “First time on the bus, kid?” The voice came from the seat beside me. I turned to see an old man, his face weathered like an old leather jacket, his eyes a startling shade of blue that seemed too clear for his years. I nodded, gripping my backpack tighter. “Yeah.” “It’s not so bad. You get used to it.” There was something comforting in his tone, and I found myself relaxing a little. I gazed curiously at the faded patches on his jacket. One pin, a dangling heart set in purple, seemed to gleam in the evening sunrise more brightly than others.  “Were you in a war or something?” I blurted out before quickly slapping a hand over my mouth in shame at the tasteless comment. “Vietnam,” he replied, his voice softening. “A long time ago.” He gripped his cane, scraping along the blue linoleum of the public bus, and didn’t say much more, but the weight of his words hung in the air between us. As the bus rumbled on, he began to tell me other stories—fragments of a life lived in a world I could only imagine. With every word, my curiosity grew, a thirst for knowledge that had been dormant until that moment. As we reached my stop, he gave me a nod. “Don’t be afraid to ask questions, kid. It’ll take you places.” I stepped off the bus, my mind buzzing with the sense that the world was much larger than I had ever imagined. My world became aloft with an unquenchable azure. 

 

The door slammed with a force that rattled the walls, the sound reverberating through the house like a gunshot. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room, my baby brother’s soft cries muffled against my chest as I pressed his head to me, trying to shield him from the storm that had just passed. “Why do they always fight?” My voice was barely a whisper, more to myself than anyone else. I could still see my dad’s face, twisted with anger and something else—something I couldn’t name, but felt deep in my bones. I’m scared. My brother’s tiny fingers clutched at my shirt, his tears soaking into the fabric. I wanted to be strong for him, to tell him everything would be okay, but the words stuck in my throat, choked by the weight of too many broken promises. How could I soothe him when my own world was crumbling? When the colors that once filled our home were seeping away, leaving nothing but dulled gray in their wake? I felt like I was being stretched, pulled too hard in too many directions, like the sopping rags my mom cleaned with, wrung out until there was nothing left. The hurt was too much, too heavy for my small shoulders to bear. My world didn’t light with color that day. Instead, it dimmed, fading into gray.

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I was born of many colors. And as I stood in the heart of Paris, thousands of miles from home, I felt those colors converge, intertwining to form something whole. 

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I stood on the hilltop, gripping the pocketknife tight. It was a gift from my father, once upon a time. My deadname was engraved onto its wooden handle. The blade had been my outlet, cutting through the unbearable numbness. But tonight, the sky above me was heavy with storm clouds, mirroring my churning stomach. I was done with this cycle, done with the fate I had allowed to rule me, done with the endless nights of silent tears and muffled screams. I pulled my arm back, feeling the weight of every choice, every scar, every moment of pain. With a cry that ripped from my throat, I threw the knife as hard as I could, watching it slice through the air before vanishing into the lake with a distant splash. “Good riddance!” I shouted, my voice breaking as I let the words carry away the last of my anger, my hurt. I stood there, my chest heaving, the wind whipping around me, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. The storm inside me began to quiet, replaced by something that felt like defiance and survival all at once. A warm, coppery color curled around my shoulders. Pride. 

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High school thrust me into leadership, a role I never asked for but became somehow burdened by. Meetings, planning events, rallying others—it all felt like too much, like the weight of it would crush me. But then came the day of a big event, and as I stood at the front, looking out at the sea of expectant faces, something shifted my perspective. Their unadulterated trust in me ignited a feeling I hadn’t known was there. “Shel, what’s the plan?” someone asked, breaking through my thoughts. I took a breath, steadying myself. “We’re going to make this the best event yet. Let’s do this!” As the day unfolded, everything fell into place. The nervous energy turned to excitement, the doubt to determination. And when it was all over, when the crowd had dispersed and the cleanup began, I looked out at the setting sun, painting the sky with shades of pink and gold. Responsibility had always felt like a burden, but now, standing there in the afterglow of success, I realized it was something more. It was power. It was purpose. It was the blood that pulsed through my veins, connecting me to those I led. It was bloodred. 

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I stood, stricken in the Louvre Museum, staring up at the towering canvas of Liberty Leading the People. Summer before my final year, graduation, my parents took us to Europe. I fell in love with the country’s good food, beautiful architecture, and pleasant weather. But I remember most clearly, this defining moment, rooted to the spot and moved to tears by a painting. The colors swirled and blended—clear blues, grassy greens, blinding whites, and soft, muted golds—each brushstroke a testament to the chaos and triumph of revolution. And in that chaos, I—another revolutionary, a glam rock nihilist, a reader of Dostoevsky and Kafka—saw my own life reflected back at me. I was born of many colors. And as I stood in the heart of Paris, thousands of miles from home, I felt those colors converge, intertwining to form something whole. The turmoil, the victories, the love, and the loss—they all led to this moment, where I finally felt that every shade, every hue had its place in the painting of my life.

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