When My Eyes Lied

I was born with total colorblindnessachromatopsia. To me, the world has always been a monochrome film, a landscape of blacks, whites, and shades of gray.

Yet, growing up, I never once wore a clashing outfit or picked the wrong colors.

Because James, my childhood best friend, was my eyes.

Every single morning, he would look over my clothes, sorting the pieces and telling me what shade I was wearing.

Others at school used to tease me. "She's practically blind. How does she have the nerve to order our resident golden boy around?"

But James always shut them down. "I like looking out for her," hed snap, looping an arm over my shoulder. "I'm going to be her eyes for the rest of our lives."

Until our senior prom. The theme was "Deep Blue Ocean," but I showed up in bright, searing red.

People whispered and snickered in the hallways, calling me the "Stoplight Girl."

James was standing just a few feet away, looking completely unbothered as my phone buzzed with a text from him.

Lost a bet. I promised her she could be the prettiest one tonight. Sorry to put you through this, but you understand, right?

I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity. Then, quietly, I typed back: Yeah.

The next day was the final interview for Columbia's prestigious early honors program. I asked him to help me choose my outfit.

"The advisor said we need to keep it professional. Nothing flashy."

Watching the sudden hesitation flicker in his eyes, I said, each word deliberate: "This is the last time Ill ever ask you."

James laughed, shaking his head. "Still mad?"

"It was just one dress, Nicole. Is it really that big of a deal?"

He reached out to ruffle my hair. "I lost a stupid bet. It's not like I did it on purpose."

I pressed my lips together and tilted my head away, avoiding his hand.

"You know I don't wear red, James."

When I was ten, my mother was killed at a quiet intersection by a speeding semi-truck.

During the investigation, the driver insisted she had run a red light, shifting all the blame onto her.

Because of her congenital colorblindness, the drivers lawyer argued she shouldn't have even been crossing streets alone if she couldn't tell red from green.

Her death was written off as her own negligence.

Ever since that day, I loathed red.

James just chuckled. "Do you even know what red looks like, Nicole?"

"You can't even tell the difference. Stop letting a silly thing like this make you bitter toward Phoebe."

Phoebe. Always Phoebe.

Ever since she transferred to our school this semester, her name had become James's favorite word.

On rainy days, hed give her the umbrella he brought for me because "Phoebe didn't wear a jacket, she'll catch a cold."

I walked home in the pouring rain that afternoon, spiking a hundred-and-four-degree fever by midnight.

When we queued up for the limited-edition pastries, he handed her the box wed waited an hour for because "Phoebe's never had them, and she's too delicate to stand in line this long."

And so, on my eighteenth birthday, after standing on my feet for eight hours, my only gift was a crushed, lukewarm egg tart James bought at a convenience store as an afterthought.

Now, I just looked at him.

"Choose," I said.

On the rack hung two outfits I had prepared for tomorrows Columbia interview.

As he reached out and casually pointed to one, I couldn't help but speak up.

"Don't pick anything too flashy. They'll dock points if it doesn't look professional."

He smiled, his expression easy. "Nicole, I've been your eyes since we were kids. Don't you trust me?"

Could I? I didn't know anymore.

I remembered being three years old in preschool when he grabbed my hand.

"Nicole Harrison," he had declared loudly to the playground, "I'm going to protect you forever."

When we were thirteen, he tackled a bully who teased me for being "blind like my mother."

With his eye swollen shut from the fight, he had still managed a bruised smile to comfort me.

"Don't cry. With me around, you'll never be blind."

At seventeen, he had awkwardly interrogated me about a boy in our class.

"Who wrote you that note? I'm telling you, dating in high school ruins your chances of getting into a good college."

And at eighteen, we made a pact to stay in the city together, to attend Columbia.

He was a straight-A student, destined for a perfect score on his finals.

I, on the other hand, excelled only in specific subjects; securing the early admissions spot through the academic competition was my only shot.

But now, James pulled a shirt off the hanger with complete indifference.

"This one. It's a soft, pale blue."

The heavy stone suspended in my chest finally dropped, fracturing something deep inside me.

He was lying.

Before he arrived, I had run the camera under an AI color-identifier app.

It was a loud, neon orange.

For this final, crucial moment, he had chosen to deceive me.

I stared at him, seeing only the gray scale of his face.

Clenching my cold fists, my voice trembled. "Are you sure?"

"James... if only one of us could get into Columbia, would you choose Phoebe over me?"

His expression instantly hardened.

"Nicole, you are you, and she is she. Stop dragging her into everything."

"If you don't get in, that's on you. Don't blame her for your own shortcomings."

Without giving me a chance to speak, he turned and walked out.

I watched him go.

The slam of the door vibrated through the room, making me flinch.

This time, even the monochrome world faded, dissolved by the tears pooling in my eyes.

The next morning, outside the Columbia interview hall.

Students walked past, casting snide glances and whispering to one another.

Maybe it was the obnoxious neon orange shirt, or maybe it was my swollen, bloodshot eyes.

A boy whose advances Id rejected sophomore year whistled at me.

"Hey, Stoplight Girl! Quite a statement piece you've got on today!"

He turned to his friends, laughing.

"Looks like a walking traffic cone. What a clown."

"They say she's colorblind, but honestly, she's basically just blind."

James was sitting on a bench not far away, leaning close to Phoebe, going over interview tips with her.

He acted as though he heard nothing.

Or maybe he did hear, and simply didn't care.

Our academic advisor hurried over.

"Nicole, what are you wearing? Didn't I explicitly tell you to wear something understated?"

She looked over at James.

"James, didn't you help her check? Today of all days..."

Before she could finish, Phoebe interrupted.

"Ms. Jennings, you can't blame James. Nicole is a grown girl. What she decides to wear is entirely her own choice."

Phoebe's friend chimed in.

"Exactly. Jamess time is valuable. He shouldn't have to waste it playing color coordinator."

"They're just classmates. He doesn't owe her that."

Ms. Jennings looked back and forth between me and James, her brow furrowed in confusion.

I felt a similar confusion.

Before Phoebe showed up, everyone took for granted that James and I would share a future just like our past.

We had planned our majors, discussed our careers.

Wed even argued playfully over how we would decorate our college apartment.

Once, the words had slipped right out of his mouth: "As soon as we graduate, Nicole, let's get married."

But today, he chose to make me a joke.

The "lifetime" he promised me apparently expired the moment we turned eighteen.

"Nicole," Phoebe called out softly.

A gentle, pitying smile played on her lips. "You did choose to wear that yourself, didn't you?"

James looked up, his gaze entirely fixed on her face.

He still didn't say a word to defend me.

He didn't even offer a simple explanation.

Pulling myself back from the memories, I forced a self-deprecating smile. "Ms. Jennings, it was my choice."

James had chosen a future without me.

And it was time for me to make mine.

I didn't reach into my bag to change into the spare white shirt I'd packed. Keeping the loud, neon orange top on, I walked straight into the interview room.

The admissions panel paused, taking in my garish appearance, before looking down at their rubrics and beginning to write.

After the interview, James caught me in the stairwell.

"Look, I made a mistake picking the outfit. The interviewers didn't say anything, did they?"

"What could they say?" I asked quietly.

He let out a dry laugh. "Are you still mad?"

"We still have the SATs and finals. I'll tutor you. I'll make sure you get into Columbia anyway, okay?"

"Just don't act like this in front of Phoebe. She prepared for weeks for this interview. Don't ruin her mood."

What about my mood? The words lodged like glass in my throat.

To ensure we went to the same university, I had spent the last three years studying myself ragged.

Through all of high school, I had rarely slept more than five hours a night.

How pathetic.

I pulled my lips into a tight line. "I get it. I won't fight her for the early admission spot."

Besides, I had already promised my father.

I was going to Stanford.

A week later, the early admission decisions were released.

Phoebe and I were separated by a mere tenth of a point.

I stared at the acceptance list on the bulletin board for a few seconds, then turned and walked away.

"Nicole."

James ran to catch up with me.

He reached out for my wrist, but I stepped aside, avoiding his touch.

My eyes inadvertently fell on his wrist. He was wearing a braided crimson bracelet.

It matched the one on Phoebes wrist perfectly.

Meanwhile, the watch I had saved a years worth of allowance to buy himwhich hed worn for exactly three dayswas nowhere to be seen.

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Why are you being so difficult lately?"

"We've been doing this silent treatment thing for days. Aren't you tired of it?"

I shook my head. "I'm not giving you the silent treatment."

I just had nothing left to say to him.

He shoved a thick stack of study guides into my arms.

"So you didn't get the early spot. Why the long face?"

"Tomorrows Saturday. We're going to the library, and I'm going to help you patch up your weak subjects."

He was trying to make peace.

Yet, the irritation pinching his brow made it look as though tutoring me was a chore he was forcing himself to endure.

The moment he spotted Phoebe coming around the corner in his peripheral vision, he turned and went to her.

My soft sigh was swallowed by the wind, entirely ignored.

That evening, as soon as I got home, my phone vibrated.

Postponing our study session till next week. Celebrating Phoebes admission tomorrow.

Shes really excited, and I can't bail on her. You understand, right?

I locked my screen, completely unsurprised.

What I didn't expect was the class president dragging me straight into Phoebe's celebration dinner the next afternoon, claiming we were just going to buy textbooks first.

We walked in right as James was slicing a cake for Phoebe.

His brow furrowed when he saw me. "What are you doing here? You should have told me you were comingthere might not be enough cake to go around."

I turned to leave, but a few classmates grabbed my arms and pulled me over to a corner table.

Phoebe patted James's arm with a sweet smile. "I asked Hannah to bring Nicole along. We're all classmates, after all."

Jamess face softened instantly. He pushed a plate of cake toward Phoebe.

"Your favorite flavor. You can have mine, too."

With finals looming, everyone was desperate to unwind. The atmosphere grew loud, and someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare.

James was the first to lose a round.

One of his friends grinned. "Spill it. Is the girl you like in this room right now?"

A warm smile spread across James's face. "Yeah," he said honestly. "She is."

Amid the chorus of cheers and whistles, Phoebe buried her face in her hands, her ears turning bright pink.

I watched silently, thinking only that the watermelon on my plate tasted incredibly bland.

A few rounds later, James lost again.

Phoebe blinked her doll-like eyes and teased, "Do you have any unspoken words for Nicole?"

James paused, his gaze landing squarely on me.

The room went quiet.

"Truth only," Phoebe chimed in, giggling.

Another heavy silence stretched between us.

Then, James spoke. "To be honest... taking care of you all the time gets really exhausting."

"Always asking me what color the sky is, what color the roses are, over and over again. Its annoying."

"The watermelon youre holding is redjust like a traffic light. You can't even see it, can you? Honestly, acting like you hate a color you can't even see is just so dramatic."

The cold wedge of watermelon in my hand suddenly felt searing hot.

I remembered him telling me once that blood was red, too.

Back then, I had nodded and said, I know what red is. The day my mom died, the doctor said she was covered in it.

Red tastes like copper.

In this exact second, that metallic taste flooded my mouth.

The room began to spin.

The watermelon slipped from my fingers, splattering onto the floor in a sticky mess.

My stomach violently convulsed, and I had to turn away, dry-heaving into my napkin.

The girl sitting next to me jumped back, shrieking, "Nicole! What is wrong with you? That is disgusting!"

With trembling hands, I gripped the edge of the table to force myself upright.

But before I could move, someone shouted, "The bottle landed on you next!"

"It's a dare!"

Instinctively, my eyes sought out James.

Even now, I hadn't broken the toxic habit of looking to him for rescue.

He was looking down, carefully wiping a drop of stray watermelon juice off Phoebe's fingers.

I closed my eyes. "I'm not playing."

I turned to leave, but Phoebes voice stopped me.

"Oh, come on, why not?"

"It's just a game, Nicole. Don't be a party pooper. Or do you just think you're above the rest of us?"

"If this is about me getting the early spot at Columbia instead of you, I can apologize, okay? Is that what you want?"

One of her friends sneered.

"She's basically half-blind. You're the only one nice enough to invite her, Phoebe, and she behaves like this."

"Ungrateful."

"Nicole." Jamess eyes flickered with annoyance. "Is it really that hard to just participate?"

I froze.

"James," I whispered, "do you honestly think I'm having fun?"

His face stiffened for a fraction of a second before his mouth set into a hard line.

"If you're going to be this sensitive, it's no wonder you don't have other friends."

"Sensitive?" My voice turned ice-cold. "Fine. What's the dare?"

"You want a truth? A dare?"

Phoebe offered a sweet, small laugh. "Nothing crazy. I just want to see if you can cross the street outside by yourself."

I raised an eyebrow. "What? Curious to see how a colorblind girl handles a traffic light?"

Just then, my phone buzzed on the table.

A classmate sitting nearby caught a glimpse of the notification.

"Stanford University admissions portal... Nicole, are you moving to California?"

The tension in the room instantly froze solid.

James's friend quickly cut in, "Okay, okay, game over."

He nudged Jamess shoulder. "Look what you did, man. Nicole's looking at West Coast schools now."

James took a second to register this, then shrugged indifferently.

"Let her look. She won't actually go. She hates California."

I slid my phone back into my pocket, offering no defense.

After my mother passed away, my fatherwho had supposedly loved her deeplyremarried within a year.

He had even packed up and relocated to California for his new wife.

As a child, I couldn't comprehend it. I only felt that he had betrayed my mother, and I had screamed and cried, refusing to move with them.

Helpless, my father had spent years flying back and forth between the two coasts to keep an eye on me.

But I understood now.

Human hearts are fragile, shifting things. I was the fool for holding onto expectations I never should have had.

I looked at James for two long seconds.

"The dare," I said calmly. "I'll do it."

One last time.

But the moment we arrived at the intersection Phoebe had chosen, my feet glued themselves to the pavement.

This was the exact intersection where my mother had died.

"James," my voice fractured. "Did you tell her about this place?"

He looked at me, seemingly confused.

"It's just an old story, Nicole. Why are you acting so shocked?"

Phoebe rolled her eyes. "A street is a street. A light is a light. Stop trying to make excuses."

It wasn't the same.

Standing here, my mind was flooded with the memory of my mother's closed eyes in the sterile white light of the ER.

Maybe the cold sweat on my forehead was too obvious, because one of the boys hesitated. "Hey, maybe we should call it off. Nicole looks really freaked out."

"She's acting," Phoebe countered sweetly. "I read that colorblind people can easily tell lights apart by their brightness anyway. Ask James if you don't believe me."

At Phoebes soft prompting, James looked away from me.

"You literally trained for this, Nicole," he said, his voice flat. "Can you stop making a scene?"

After my mother died, he was the one who had stood with me at every street corner, teaching me how to gauge the glowing lights.

It had taken two painful years to conquer my terror of crossing the street alone.

His face hadn't changed, but looking at him now, he felt like a complete stranger.

I stopped looking at him.

Biting my lower lip, I turned and took a step onto the asphalt.

As long as I could get away from him, I didn't care where I ended up.

My heartbeat drummed violently in my ears. I forced my trembling legs forward, one heavy step after another.

Suddenly, a sharp gasp cut through the air behind me.

"Nicole!"

The screech of locking brakes on a massive truck was followed by a sickening, heavy thud.

And then, my colorless world shattered completely.

Before darkness claimed me, I caught that iron taste again. The taste of red.

A month later, on the morning of the SAT exams.

James stood outside the testing center, pacing back and forth, looking anxious.

The proctor rushed over. "The gates are closing, James. What are you waiting for?"

"Nicole isn't here yet. Is she stuck in traffic on her way from the clinic?"

"Nicole? She's not taking the exams. She already accepted an early admission offer."

"Early admission?!"

"Yes. She submitted her application to Stanford weeks ago, and they accepted her."

"Did she not tell you?"