Sheldon used to see life in black and white. He wasn't fond of disorganized colors, as much as his fellows seemed so keen on bombarding their existences with multiple shades. For nearly 30 years he made sure every decision was methodical and practical; either for achieving or failing in the attempt, so he could later consider every variable gone wrong. There was no use on adding emotion to the mix, aka, life itself. It could turn everything troublesome and painful, his own life experience said so.

And believe him, it was going great. Until.

One online dating server.

A dirty sock.

A coffee shop.

A glass of tepid water.

A brunette with tantalizing green eyes.

Finally, an equal.

It was going great, until he started to notice a little bit of green in his black and white world. Green, like the one you appreciate in emeralds or malachite. He dismissed it back in the day, just a little mishap.

Then, green started to overtake a quarter or his vision.

The a half.

One day, he opened his eyes and green was all around. However, green didn't come alone: Red, yellow, orange, purple. A complete nightmare. A sudden impulse to find what caused the sudden influx of color led him to force his eidetic memory to go back and find the exact moment this corruption started. It was clear as sunlight: Amy Farrah Fowler. Such a minx.

He became fearful of the neurobiologist that caused ruckus in his orderly world. This was not how things were meant to be. Color wasn't meant to take over his life.

If anything, color meant attachment, and pain and misery. He didn't want that in his life again. Not after his Pop-Pop and his father.

He wanted to scream at it, shout at it, insult it. And yet, he couldn't. Too late. His insecurities drove Amy away more than once, and he thought it was better off that way. Black and white were back, but he found himself missing color every time. So he made up to her, asked for forgiveness, tried to mend her little broken heart, even just a bit.

It dawned upon him, then: He needed her and that rainbow behind her in his life. It was non optional, at least, not anymore.

So when he said "I do" more than 45 years ago, life was in technicolor for good. And he loved and cherished every second of it.

Right now, his tired and longing eyes had the black and white vision again. His Amy closed her eyes for the last time 2 weeks ago. It was quiet, during her sleep. No suffering.

His sons and daughter stopped by their, his, home more frequently, given his current situation: He was an old man, and he couldn't be alone or on his own anymore.

He missed her. Missed her warmth, missed her smile, missed her heart beat; the very same that lulled him to sleep in the nights when she gave herself to him. And missed the green of her eyes.

Some birds were chirping outside, under a tree; a light breeze caressed his cheek. So soft, like silk… Like her hands.

Finally. About time.

He saw the colors one last time. And her. So perfect and beautiful like their first day.


I won't lie. I nearly cried while finishing this. There's a personal element I decided to add in the story, something from my grandfather and his great love's love story.

Them, as Sheldon and Amy here, passed away the same way our power couple did. Him, two weeks after her; but in different years.

Fill your lives with some colors!

SH xoxo