She wishes things weren’t the way they were, but she knows wishing won’t get her anywhere. She wishes that they would. All she ever gets are looks, looks from everyone for all the wrong reasons. Judging eyes raking over her flaming red skin at every given moment, no matter how discreet they try to be, she can feel them. She would never be as happy in her own skin because it was the only thing that set her apart from everyone, and oh, not in a good way.
For fitting in requires being normal, and being normal requires you be a shade of a primary colour. She could assert that she was born that way but her parents swear that she looks pink in her baby pictures. She knows there are ways to change your colour, both temporarily and permanently; but she also wants to prove everyone wrong. She wants to shout it from the rooftops (she’ll leave that to the bright and confident activists) nevertheless she settles to be the noise that says ‘different doesn’t equate to bad’ (or at least that’s her excuse) but the problem is, she isn’t quite sure of that herself. Then she meet-cutes a blue girl and decides that she can be nothing short of beautiful. Her colours don’t define her, they aren’t inherently evil. But she could surely do with some purple in her life.