I believe in the color brown. I believe that this color, a color disliked by many, written off as not beautiful, is indeed, beautiful. It’s beautiful for its food, for the chocolate that melts on the tongues of all the brown haters who taste the decadence but cannot see the shimmering magnificence. I believe in the color that so many do not love because it deserves to be loved. I believe that it’s a wonderful color for a swimsuit or a Chevrolet, a wonderful color for mahogany chairs and home-cooked pot roast. Brown is my very favorite color. But the reason, the number one reason I believe in the color brown is because it’s the color of the eyes of the one I love. I believe in the color brown because her eyes are brown, her hair is brown, and her skin is brown.

The color brown brings me back to the day I first spoke to her, on stage, just before performing a play we did together. I was shy, too shy to speak to her for an entire month even though I saw her every day after school for two hours of rehearsal. She was shy, too. But there was an attraction, a reason, as to why I fell in love with the color brown… and her. I remember it clearly too… that moment when she first talked to me.

Our brown eyes met, and my heart started beating faster than it would’ve had I been running the Boston marathon in the dead heat of summer. She started talking about our ages. She was 14, a freshman, and I was 18, a senior, but who can choose when it comes to matters of the heart, right? She was saying something, something about how she was the youngest cast member, and I was the oldest. Funny. But I wasn’t really listening. I mean, sure, I was smiling and laughing and talking, but what I was mostly doing was staring right into her chocolate pudding eyes.

Like comfort food, she healed my heart, my broken heart. It had been through a lot. I remember crying every day over my deceased father; I remember crying over the best friend who betrayed me just before summer started, forcing me to go all summer practically alone, longing for someone, anyone to show me they still cared.

Then, she was there. Every single day she was there, is still there, and I am the most thankful person in this entire world. I believe in the color brown because she believes in the color brown. She loves my eyes just as I love hers, and we can spend hours upon hours staring, gazing into each other’s eyes until we’ve memorized just where every fleck of gold is. Her skin is smooth to the touch, and it smells like a crisp winter’s day mixed with the fragrance of a spring flower, autumnal leaves, and the soothing summer sun. I am in love. I don’t care how old she is. I just don’t care. She is my every color rose. And though she sometimes pricks me with thorns of anger, occasionally draws blood with piercing words that are aimed at exposing my mistakes, she is still as beautiful as that rose, as fragrant, and as telling. A rose is a symbol of love. Love is what I live and will die for, for love cannot choose. It does not discriminate based on race or on gender. One can love a person, an idea, a theory, even a color. I love the color brown because it is her; she is my favorite color.

The day I met her, my life changed forever. I cannot dance without wishing she were my partner. I cannot sing without wanting her to hear. I cannot believe in anything without believing in her and believing in the brown I see in her eyes, the brown that, to me, symbolizes love, and the brown that made this non-believing, broken-hearted soul believe in love, too.