Brown Feathers

The brown feathers on the hood of his pure white jacket ruffle in the gentle breeze. As if the wind blew my gaze to him, he turned. I looked away.

Brown. It's such an ugly colour, brown. Dirt, stains, rot... dull. All brown. Somehow, the brown feathers sat proudly on his white hood. They fit.

White. It's such a beautiful colour. Well, it's hardly a colour at all. Light, purity, goodness... clean. All white. But somehow, they fit, the brown feathers and the white hood. White didn’t beautify brown, nor did brown sully white.
It's symbiosis. They fit. They complement. They balance each other out. A perfect match.

He'll find his brown feather soon, his perfect match. They’ll bring out the best in each other. They’ll be equals.
Brown. If my life were a colouring book, brown would have been splattered in every page. I’m the epitome of brown - dirt, stains, rot and all. I don't fit. I’m not his brown feather, and I never will be.

The wind blew more strongly, ruffling the brown feathers on his white hood. One brown feather breaks free, and seemingly caressed his cheek before gliding away with the sudden gale.

Word Count: 200