You hated yellow. I remember you saying it once, without even thinking, while we were walking downtown past those endless rows of shops and flower carts.
“It’s too loud,” you said, wrinkling your nose like the color itself had personally offended you. “Too much.”
I laughed because, somehow, it made sense. You were always drawn to cool shades—deep blues, muted grays, soft forest greens. Colors that whispered instead of shouted.
But now I’m standing here, watching you turn in front of the mirror, holding a dress the color of a summer morning against your body. Bright yellow. Golden and unapologetic. You catch my eye in the mirror and grin, a little sheepish.
“Is yellow your favorite now?” I ask, teasing, but there’s a genuine curiosity laced in the words.
You press your lips together, thinking, then shrug. “Maybe,” you say, holding the dress up higher like you’re testing yourself. “I don’t know. It feels… different now. Good different.”
I smile because I get it—maybe more than you realize.
A year ago, you would have avoided anything like this. You would have tucked yourself into dark corners, worn the colors that let you blend into the background. Back then, life felt heavier for you, like every step took a little more effort. You didn’t laugh as easily. You measured your words, careful not to take up too much space.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Maybe it was the long nights we spent under a sky thick with stars, talking about everything and nothing. Maybe it was the way you started collecting tiny moments of joy like they were treasures: a new song you couldn’t stop playing, the smell of rain on hot concrete, a stranger’s unexpected kindness.
Or maybe you just decided you deserved to be seen.
Either way, here you are now, holding up a color that demands attention. A color that says, Here I am. Look at me. I’m not hiding anymore.
You twirl in front of the mirror, the dress catching the light. I can’t help but laugh because you look radiant—and because a part of me is a little in awe of you.
“Yellow suits you,” I say honestly.
You raise an eyebrow, mock serious. “Are you saying I didn’t look good before?”
I chuckle. “You always looked good. You just… look brighter now.”
You study me for a moment, and I wonder if you’re about to make a joke, deflect the compliment like you used to. But instead, you smile—a real one, the kind that lights up your whole face.
“Maybe it’s not about the color,” you say, half to yourself. “Maybe it’s about how I feel when I wear it.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
You carry the dress to the register without hesitation, and I follow, still smiling. Outside, the sun blazes overhead, turning the sidewalks into rivers of light. Everything feels louder, sharper, more alive. You slip your arm through mine as we walk, swinging our hands between us.
“I think,” you say after a while, “that yellow reminds me of hope.”
I squeeze your hand. “Then I hope you wear it all the time.”
You laugh, the sound bright and open, and for a second, it feels like the whole world tilts a little closer toward something good. Something golden.
Maybe yellow is your favorite now.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s mine too.
