I was never good with words from the beginning; I only scored mediocre on all of my Japanese classes, never got praised for anything that I wrote since I was able to write, even my handwriting is awful and nobody could ever read them save me alone. So why start now? Why writing about her at all?

It was for the sake of memories. In order to release them from this bodily cage, I have to transform them into something else, something solid, like words or colors; but colors won’t be much accurate since I only see things in black and white, I am color-blinded.

Her name was Tsubaki, same as the flower. And her cheeks were as red as of the camellia in summertime when she flustered. I never get to know her last name.

I still remembered the first time I saw her, twelve summers ago. I was on my way back from school that day, trotting along the station while holding tight to my backpack’s straps, like many other school days before. She sat quietly on a long station bench; in her right hand was a quite crumpled piece of paper. Her eyes were full of determination back then. She was alone for all I remember.

The next thing that happened remains unclear to me, was it the sun playing tricks on me, or was I, in that instant were daydreaming, or it could be one of millions other possibilities. As I walked pass her, something happened. I never told anyone about this strange experience.

I turned my head to her, trying to read her expression. I couldn’t read her grief back then as grief was still an unfamiliar matter to a sixth grader.

A second later, strange colors begun to crept slowly into my vision, like teabag drowned in a hot water. Not long, I realized the source of that strange color was her. Yes. At first her dark grey sweater was turning pink ever so slowly, as if someone or something had injected the color of flowers into them; then her grey shoes turning bluish like the ocean in slow-motion, and as clear as yesterday, I finally was able to make her jade eyes and her camellia colored cheeks. Mr. Sakata, my old neighbor said I just stood there like a statue and collapsed to the ground not so long after.

I woke up at my room, confused. My feelings got so tangled up I’m unable to speak for a couple of days. Mr. Sakata said it was sunstroke, because of the unusual heat that day, but I know it was something else; something that weather can never do to me.

To some extent, I spent my summer and what’s left from my elementary days hoping to meet that girl again and tell her about that moment. I would spent my afternoon sitting at the same long station bench she sat, reading some random manga or just looking at an endless waves of passengers and trains coming and departing.

Sometimes Mr. Sakata, after finishing his guard shift at the station, would sit beside me and put on some random banter, asking if my manga was any good, or asking if I’m hungry, or school subjects at some occasions. He then, would walk me home before going to his house, a small house behind the station, only few blocks separated from mine.

My life and vision were back to plain black and white again.

Memory is an invisible rain; you don’t feel it pouring but always stepped on its puddle.