But what is art if not a cruel beauty?

You painted over the monotonous shades of grey in my life. Shades of rainbow that mixed together little by little as time went by. Maybe because the shift from grey to a bright array of colours was more prominent and clear than the gradual and slow one that followed it, the one producing a murky, painful brown.

When I think about it now, it doesn't make sense why I hadn't noticed it sooner. Maybe because the colours had blinded me, but you see, I've never been very good with colours.

You were the one fond of specifics among us. It was burgundy, not red. Magenta, not pink. Mauve, not purple. And in the blink of an eye it was gone. The canvas was covered in brown. Maybe the painter had gotten tired of the constant splotches of brown ruining the rainbow and had decided to finish it once and for all.

But what is art if not a cruel beauty?

Despite the agony the brown came along with, I held on to it, fearing the emptiness letting go of it would follow. And I slowly accepted it. I grew used to pain because shades of brown were all my eyes could see now.

But maybe slowly, the artist started repainting a rainbow over it. But it is different this time, the lid of the brown tube has been screwed shut.

Burgundy, not red. Magenta, not pink. Mauve, not purple.

It was brunt umber, not brown.