Chapter 2: Grayscale Girl

“Some people arrive in your life like quiet thunderstorms—unannounced, uncolored, unforgettable.”

The next morning, the sky still looks the same.

Pale. Flat. Borderless.

I sit near the back of the classroom, where the whirring ceiling fan drowns out whatever the teacher is saying about light and wavelengths—colors I’ve only ever read about in textbooks.

Outside the window, the Padma flows like ink: slow, heavy, infinite. Inside, my world stays the same.

But my mind isn’t here.

It’s still on that rooftop. On her.

Her voice keeps looping in my head.

“You’re not the only one who sees the world in black and white.”

What did she mean by that?

Did she…?

The door clicks open.

I hear footsteps—late, unhurried.

Then I see her.

Same uniform. Loosely tied hair. And those eyes—somehow full of color, even in a world without any.

She gives the teacher a quiet nod and slides into the empty seat one row ahead, a little to the left.

The teacher calls roll.

“Jyoti Ahmed.”

She raises her hand.

I whisper her name to myself before I even know why.

At lunch, I stay in the classroom again, sketching.

I’ve drawn the silhouette from last night four times already, trying to capture something—something in the way she made the rooftop feel less empty.

I’m shading in the sky when I realize she’s sitting beside me.

No sound. No words. Just there.

She looks at the drawing.

“You draw the world like it’s sad,” she says, not as a judgment—just an observation.

I keep my eyes on the page.

“It’s the only world I see.”

She leans forward a little, resting her elbows on the desk.

Her breath is quiet. Steady.

“You were on the rooftop last night. Alone?”

I nod. “Usually.”

She nods too. “Me too.”

We fall into a silence that feels… safe. Not awkward, just familiar—like two people who’ve lived too long inside their own heads.

I glance at her. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. Just calm. Real.

“You said something before you left,” I say.

She turns her gaze to the window. “Yeah.”

“Did you mean it?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, like she’s weighing something. Then she nods.

“I’ve had achromatopsia since I was a kid,” she says. “For the longest time, I thought I was the only one in this city like that.”

I stare at her. Not in disbelief—more like recognition.

“…You too?”

She nods again, softer.

“Color’s always been a myth,” she says. “People talk about ‘sky blue’ or ‘blood red’ like they’re describing memories we’re all supposed to share. But for me, it’s like hearing someone describe a dream I’ve never had.”

The way she says it—quiet, practiced—I can tell she’s had this conversation in her head a hundred times.

I swallow.

“Do you hate it?”

She’s quiet for a second. Then, a faint smile.

“No. I just wish I didn’t have to pretend so much.”

I let out a small laugh—dry, but honest.

“Same.”

She turns to me, eyebrows raised, like she didn’t expect that.

“You pretend too?”

“Every day,” I say. “I faked knowing what green looked like in class two. Kept nodding along, hoping no one would ask questions. Eventually, I just got good at it.”

Her smile grows, just a little. Not out of amusement—out of understanding.

It’s the kind of smile you give when you realize someone else has been carrying the same invisible weight.

The bell rings, sharp and sudden. Students start moving around us.

Jyoti stands up, grabs her bag, then pauses.

“You go up to the rooftop again?” she asks.

“Almost every day after school,” I say, a little quieter than I meant to.

She nods. “Then I’ll see you there.”

And just like last night, she walks away.

But this time, she leaves something behind.

Her name.

Her story.

And a space beside me I didn’t know I’d been saving.