Chapter Five: Colors He Couldn’t Name
The art studio smelled of linseed oil, old books, and something else Adrian couldn’t place—maybe vulnerability.
He stepped cautiously into the space, sharply aware of how out of place he looked in his tailored navy coat and polished shoes. Maya, in contrast, stood barefoot on a paint-splattered canvas, laughing with a group of young therapists.
She waved him over without ceremony. “You made it.”
“I said I would,” Adrian replied, adjusting his sleeves. “Though I’m not sure what I’m meant to be observing here.”
Maya smirked. “Try not to observe. Try to… be.”
Before he could respond, a woman approached them with a box of colored pencils and a curious smile.
“You must be LogicMind,” she said, offering the box to Adrian. “We’re doing projection work today. Choose a color. Don’t think. Just pick.”
He hesitated, then reached in and pulled out a dull grey pencil.
Maya’s eyes twinkled. “Interesting.”
“What does grey mean?” he asked.
“Depends. Could be calm. Could be numb. Could mean you’re hiding everything in plain sight.”
He didn’t like that answer.
The session began. Around him, people were drawing—messy, emotional, unfiltered things. Faces made of lightning. Houses on fire. Spirals within spirals. Adrian’s paper stayed mostly blank. He finally drew a single, straight line.
Maya drifted over and crouched beside him. “That’s it? One line?”
“It’s clean. Precise,” he said.
She tilted her head. “It’s also lonely.”
The word lingered in the air between them.
Adrian looked at her, really looked. Her hair was tied up haphazardly, a smudge of red paint across her cheek. She didn’t blink away from him. She saw him—and didn’t flinch.
“Why do you care so much about this?” he asked, surprising even himself.
“Because I’ve been on the other side of silence,” she said softly. “And because sometimes the people who think they’re okay… aren’t.”
Later, as the group packed up, Maya handed him a sketchpad. “Next time, draw something less perfect.”
He opened the pad to the first page. In bold letters, she’d written:
“There’s no such thing as flawless healing.”
As he walked back into the chilly London air, something tugged at him—not quite understanding, not quite comfort. Just… something.
And for the first time in a long while, Adrian Nwosu didn’t try to name it.
