Colors of the Soul

Colors of the Soul: Unveiling the Hidden Shades of the Human Heart

Amara always believed she saw the world differently. While others talked about blue skies, green fields, and gray rain, she spoke of emotions in colors. To her, sorrow was a smoky indigo, love was a burnished gold, and hope shimmered in soft hues of lilac. Since childhood, she had sensed people’s feelings not through words but through the colors that surrounded them—an aura only she could see.

She never told anyone, not even her mother, who often scolded her for daydreaming. "You can't live in colors, Amara. This world is black and white." But Amara knew better. The world was not black and white—it was a canvas, and everyone was painting their soul with every choice they made.

When Amara turned twenty-three, she left her small village for the city of Noorabad to study art therapy. She was drawn to it not for the academics, but for the way people expressed their hidden selves through color and form. In her heart, she hoped to help others see what she saw. But the city was louder, faster, and harsher than she had imagined. People's auras were often clouded—some so dark and muddled she couldn’t read them at all.

It was in Noorabad that she met Zayaan.

He was her classmate, quiet and observant, always sketching in the back of the studio. While most students filled their canvases with color, Zayaan painted in black and white—stark, painful, beautiful contrasts. Amara was intrigued. The first time she sat beside him, she expected to see some trace of color. But there was none. His soul was colorless—completely blank.

That had never happened before.

"Why do you only paint in black and white?" she asked him one evening after class.

He shrugged. "Because that’s all I see."

"Nothing has color for you?"

He looked at her, not unkindly, but as if she’d asked a foolish question. "Color is an illusion. It doesn’t change what’s broken inside."

Amara felt a chill. She had seen people with dull, faded auras before, even dark ones. But never one without color at all. She began to notice how he kept his distance from others, how he smiled without warmth, and how his eyes seemed to carry the weight of a past unspoken.

She decided to try something different. Every day for a week, she left a tiny painting on his desk—no names, no messages. Just color. A burst of orange and yellow one day. A calm gradient of green the next. A stormy purple wave another. Zayaan never reacted, never mentioned them. But he never threw them away either.

Then, one rainy Thursday, she found a note in place of her painting.

"Color is loud. But your silence speaks. Meet me at the rooftop studio after class."

Her heart raced as she climbed the stairs that evening. He was already there, sitting by the window, sketchpad in hand.

"I don’t know why you keep doing this," he said without looking up.

"Because I think you’ve forgotten the colors inside you."

Zayaan sighed. "There was a time I saw color. I was a child. My mother used to sing to me—her voice painted the world in gold. But then she died. Suddenly, everything faded. My father buried himself in work. I learned not to feel. Not to see."

Amara sat beside him, gently. "But feelings don’t die, Zayaan. They just hide. You locked them away."

He looked at her for a long moment. "And how do you know that?"

"Because I see them. Not with my eyes—but here." She placed her hand over her heart. "And you still have color. It’s just... buried."

For the first time, his eyes flickered with something—doubt, maybe, or hope.

Over the following months, they spent hours together in the studio. She showed him how to mix colors, not with technique, but with emotion. He painted sunsets with fear, oceans with regret, and gardens with longing. His soul, once colorless, began to shimmer—faintly, but unmistakably. Amara saw the change. The gray mist around him began to lift, replaced by soft pastels. Then deeper shades—wine red, emerald green, and finally, a vibrant burst of cobalt blue.

One day, he handed her a canvas. It showed a girl with a heart glowing in golden light, standing in a field of swirling colors.

“It’s you,” he said simply.

Amara smiled, her eyes wet. “Then you finally see.”

He nodded. “Thanks to you, I remember now. Pain doesn’t erase color. It just blinds us for a while.”

From that day on, Zayaan’s art became known across the campus. Not because of its brilliance, but because of its soul. Each piece whispered a journey—of loss, healing, and rediscovery. Amara never stopped seeing colors in others, but she no longer felt alone in that world.

Together, they held workshops for students who struggled with emotions they couldn’t name. And through color, they gave voice to the silent.

In the end, Amara’s belief proved true: Every soul has color—hidden, layered, complex. And sometimes, all it takes to unveil it is someone willing to see.