She isn’t black, white or the uncertain grey hazy mess in between. She isn’t a colour or a shade, she is merely a shell of her former self. She has felt the warm caress of love wash over her, and the low that comes shortly after realising that nothing, including love, is perfect. She has felt the pang of guilt after hurting those she hates and there is no denying the fact that she has had losses. She has had so many, most of which were caused by the person she hates so much that she loves them, that she can’t remember her gains.