Muted Colours [ Ongoing Draft ]

CHAPTER 1

Abby's POV

I've always hated this hallway.

It was too quiet - too quiet to be appreciated.

As if someone has pressed on the mute button and forgotten to put the volume back up. And there was always this flickering light at the second floor, my floor,  that's been trying to die for months now, and made you feel like were in a horror movie.

And between all of this, there was him.

Blue.

Same window. Same hour. Same ghost expression.

He was standing outside building 2B, keys in hand but somehow paralysed, as if he was listening to something only him alone could hear with his head tilting slightly.

His dark brown hair always looked messy. As if he just ran both hands through it and thought it was good enough. And it was. At least, to me.

There is a streak of black paint on the hem of his grey shirt today. Because two days ago, the paint was green. And the day before, it was...well blue. And me for some reasons I don't like admitting, I keep track.

He doesn't look at me when I walk past him. At least not really. Just a slight gaze to my direction to say he's still alert despite his lost expression before disappearing inside his room without a word.

Just like always.

I sigh a bit and adjust my backpack on my shoulder as I step forward to my bul as well - 2C, room 15. Yes, right in front of his. Our windows looking at each other's.

It's been that way for almost two years now and despite that, we've barely shared a dozen words. I see him more than I hear him - excepted late at night, when he paints.

Once in my dorm, I get rid of my shoes and directed myself to reach the kettle, as I lost my gaze looking at his  window.

I could see him moving. I can hear this melancholic melody he plays especially at night, windows opened - a soft, dreamy and weird piano melody that makes it easier to breathe and sleep at night.

It's strange how this melody can lull my pain somehow.

I don't think he knows I can hear everything.

I don't even think he cares.

And then, my phone buzzes on the counter - enough to bring me back to reality. It's a message from mum. I don't open it.

The kettle whistles.

I pour the hot water over a tea bag and stare at the steam rising. My heart won't slow down and I don't know why. No, in fact I do. I just don't want to admit it. Because I already know what mum's text is going to say.

She's getting married.

And we're leaving.

The burnt I felt on my fingers wakes me up and I drop the tea bag instinctively.

I blow on my hand for a moment before, realizing I've been thinking too much these past few weeks.

Hopefully, the burnt wasn't too serious - unlike my problems.

I grab my mug and sat on the couch, reading mum's message. It was shorter than I expected.

Dinner at Daniel's tonight. Want to talk. Please, don't start with the attitude. Love you.

I stared at it for a while, letting the words on the screen blur while my tea went cold in my hands. I wasn't even angry. Not anymore. I felt like I'd already used up all my fire weeks ago when she first mentioned the possibility of moving.

And for now, I was just tired.
Tired of packing boxes in my head. Tired of thinking this wasn't going to rip something out of me. Something I wasn't ready yet to lose. Tired of pretending like I didn't care about leaving town.

Leaving...him.

I didn't really understand what it was about him: he wasn't specifically friendly, He wasn't kind. He wasn't even particularly polite. Maybe something about the way he moved through the world. Like nothing outside his art and his locked-up sadness behind his eyes could reach him.

And me, I desperately, stupidly wanted to know what was behind all of that.

...

I didn't go to Daniel's place for dinner.

I said I had a migraine - which wasn't totally a lie. My head did really hurt - probably from grinding my teeth all day and bottling up the screams I wanted to get off my chest.

I opened my anatomy textbook and stared at the same paragraph for a long while until the words didn't look like English anymore.

All my attention was indeed drawn to the sound of the melody coming from next door.

An aching piano notes. A mournful piece. Sad and depressing, in a way.

I walked to my window, to get a better listen and stood there for a while.

His silhouette was moving. I saw him going back and forth - taking his canva or fighting against himself. Sometimes, he'd lean on the wall, looking lost in his boots.

And me, I was lost in him.

...

When I stepped outside a few hours later, Blue stood at his front door. He saw me and we both froze.

He was holding a package. One of his usual package, those thick cardboards tubes people use to mail posters or rolled-up artwork.

His hair was damp and he was wearing a black hoodie over a white t-shirt. There was a dark smudge on his jaw - paint again I guess.

His eyes flicked to me briefly.

"Hi," I said with subtle voice that I didn't mean it to be.

He didn't reply. Not at first. Then, he just nodded.

"Morning,"

His voice was low and rough. As if it had travelled many sleepless nights before it got to me.

I stood there, awkward and frozen with my keys in hand.

He started to turn.

"Um...your...your music," I blurted out.

He stopped and looked at me again. Really looked this time.

"Your music last night...It was really beautiful,"

"That's unusual," he said. "Most people complain,"

"I'm not most people,"

These words slipped out of my mouth involuntary. And while I thought I was being stupid, a subtle of something - surprise perhaps - crossed his face but it was gone in a blink.

He nodded again and turned toward his door before closing it.

No thank you. No smile. Just...Blue.

But as I walk through the hallway and went downstairs, I realized my lips were curving themselves into a slight smile I couldn't wipe of my face.