The only color I see is rain. Big storm clouds erupting with spine chilling drops of dew. The kind you would see in Seattle. Except lucky for you the city I live in is much less dreary than Seattle.

Welcome to Chicago it read in black and white letters. "Starbucks" it read in black and white letters. "Stop" it read in black and white letters. "Freeway" it read in black and white letters.

Your probably thinking "Chicago the city of monotonous road signs in some trendy modernesque aesthetic black and white theme. Either that or whoever designed the signs was really boring" I hate to disappoint but unfortunately it's neither.

I, Calvin Jax Tatum, the color blind, nerdy kid from some upscale town in the Sunny (black and white) California, has been released to further my (black and white) adulthood in the beautiful city of Chicago, Illinois.

So here I am in Chicago. The city of the bean, big buildings, and white (or rather black and white) castles. Not real castles though, just some novelty here I guess. If I ever lose my mind and consume processed grease ball drive thrus for lunch again I'll be sure to let you know how it tastes.

How do I explain myself. I am newly 18, I'm headed off to make a man of myself. Or rather make a college student of myself at Northeastern University. This means new school, new job, new life.

That's what my parents told me but everything feels the same as usual so I don't bother believing their "your future is bright" spiel. The brightest thing I see is the sun and that's just a slightly brighter hue of white.

Oh yeah how did I become the most drab form of color blind you may ponder?? Well I lost my father at a young age and the doctors believe I was so depressed I actually lost the ability to see color. I'm sort of a mystery case as to how trauma led to viewing the world in this awful perspective but here I am.

My exterior matches my interior I'd say pretty well. A bit of a scruffy guy, medium build. Dark brown hair, gray blue-eyes but, if you ask me they just look gray. I'm here because I'm a writer and writers write better in more interesting place. I'm seeking an adventure here.

Us writers are dangerous we would do anything to get a story, honest. You need to bleed to write and I've been bleeding since I lost the ability to tell you the color of my own blood.

Most of us writers are thirsty for a story, something unique than the writers before us. Me, my friend I am parched for this new and innovative story. I get it, my words reek of that writer desperation every writer possesses, but I will seek it out around every black and white street corner.

My dorm room looked out over into the beautiful (violence ridden) streets of Chicago. There's a pungent smell of coffee that creeps in through the cracked window at dusk every morning, beckoning me to grab a black and white cup with my morning Hemingway.

I guess I fit the writer stereotype: staying up past midnight scribbling into my black and white leather bound notebook intricate poems about love and flowers and the sunshine. If you didn't read that in my Calvins famous sarcastic tone than maybe you should reread that because God knows I'm no stereotype. I find my inspiration to old fashioned way. I drink a bottle of whiskey and write until my black and white blood dribbles down my black and white hand onto my black and white Mac book. (Ok no I was being dramatic I have no idea why I would be bleeding from typing). But you get the point I'm dedicated, passionate.

Writing has been the only thing I care about in years. Well that, and baseball but you get the point.

This isn't where my story starts though. This isn't really a story about me, it's about her.

It was about 10:23 when the odor of intense dark brew coffee filled my black and white room as I was awoken from my slumber. It was an autumn day so I threw on some black and white flannel and a beanie and wrestled with my decaying novel stack as I hustled out the black and white door of my dorm.

The coffee shop was oddly French themed but I didn't mind due to the scrumptious croissants I absorbed much of my cold brew coffee with. Halfway through the second stanza of my poem regarding the way the black and white French vibe stripes made me feel; I saw her. A niagra falls of my cold brew sailed it's way a spot into my poem book.

The moment I glanced at this human my mouth probably fell so far down it reached the gates of hell. It was like a Deja vu unreal feeling. The black and white of her hair changed. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Her pin straight locks dripped golden. Was gold a color. She dressed like she hopped out of a nineties movie. Her attire was slightly too fancy for a coffee shop and slightly too trendy for Chicago and slightly to artistic for my poetic brain to fathom.

The world was black and white except her hair. It was the shade of gold I recalled from past references. The shade of royal tiaras, the hue of rivers of riches. The color of her hair.

She nearly tripped on her kitten heels as she lurched to pick up the remains of my somersaulting coffee cup.

I looked up as gray eyes met mine. Not just gray though, the greyest eyes that have ever locked with mine.

"Who needs to read" I thought "this is just about as poetic as it gets" as I stared into two spherical Utopias of my future life.

I couldn't see the color of her skin but her hair radiated like the sun used to, before I was sad. I was sad for so long I forget the joy I used to feel, running around in my backyard, with my sister, under the hot suns rays, on a cool July night. That's what looking at this girl felt like.

"Sadie" she said. Two syllables that I knew would mend my mangled heart. I wanted to tell her my name , but " how do you take your coffee?" was all I could manage.

"Iced with caramel" her two lips curled up into a smile that shook my world. I didn't say a word because I didn't know what to say, so instead I grabbed my wallet, and replaced my coffee, and payed for hers as well.

When I turned I saw her comfortably lounging on an over sized velvet (you guessed it) black and white chair. Her mind appeared to be consumed by my scrawl all over my poem book.

As I returned two holy grail, caffeinated beverages in hand, she gleamed. She took her coffee in hand, and opened her mouth, I assumed to thank me or what not but instead she said "I want you to write a poem about me".

"How could I write a poem about you? You've said nothing but three words to me?"

"Sometimes that's all you need" she smirked and tousled her golden locks back.

I couldn't help but notice how much she looked like she belonged in some movie. "These are the type of people you wrote poems about" I thought.

Instead of protesting further I flipped to a page without coffee on it and began with the word "golden".

My poem featured exquisite descriptions of this dainty looking girl in front of me. She didn't ask me why it was called golden simply she examined it carefully.

I was watching the way her exquisite eyes move while she was reading until... Two lips met mine. It was simply a peck but why had she kissed me?

"Have you been to the museum yet?"

She ditched the coffee and grabbed my book and poem book and intertwined her fingers in mine.

She led me down the busy streets, books in hand, my hand in the other. Only talking about how "grand" the museum was. I hadn't heard any one say "grand" in quite awhile but the way she said it was addicting.

The museum was the most "grand" architectural genius I had ever seen (even in black and white). The doors were large and wooden and the ceiling looked like the Sistine Chapel. It was something out of a movie or maybe a short story of some sort, of course written by an intelligent writer like myself.

Anyways i watched the angelic female drag me down these long hallways of majestic velvet carpet. "I'm taking you to my favorite exhibit" she reassured me in her honey suckle voice. I just simply followed behind her, feeling as though I were the main character in a Nicholas Sparks movie.

She finally came to a stop in front of a large painting of a scruffy-looking fellow kissing, what looked to be a fashion-model. She stood there beaming in front of this masterpiece, not realizing she was the real master piece. She looked like the model in the painting, with her blush pleated skirt wrapped perfectly around her narrow hips.

Blush was a color wasn't it?

I grabbed her beautiful face, and dipped her, in my arms, just as the artist had portrayed the lumber-jack seeming man doing, and kissed her. As her lips met mine I felt something inside me heal. A layer of sweet honey coated my heart and I felt bliss. As I opened my blue eyes I saw the world in a different light.

My eyes saw color. Millions of colors, shades, hues filled the museum. Sadie smiled as though she knew what was happening.

"Sadie" I said. The two syllables that opened my eyes to a whole new world.