The Gap

The world had always seemed quiet to Aris—not silent, just quiet, like the hushed space between breaths. Even as a child, she noticed how muted the colors were, how life moved in restrained rhythms, as though it was holding something back. The laughter of her peers rang sharp and bright, but she only heard it as an echo. Even the sunsets painting the Trinidadian skies in crimson and gold felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.

For most of her life, Aris felt like a spectator in her own story—watching, not living. Unanswered questions lingered in her mind, haunting her like restless shadows. If the world is colorless, is it my eyes that are blind, or does the universe simply refuse to shine for me? She wondered if her inability to find color, to find joy, said something about her existence. What if my story isn't mine to write? What if I'm just a chapter in someone else's book?

She couldn't remember when the numbness started. Maybe it had always been there. But it wasn't sadness—not exactly. Sadness had weight, a presence. This was different. This was absence. A hollowing out. Most days, she wore it well, hiding behind small smiles and quiet strength. But at night, when the world was still, the questions came rushing back, louder than before.

Her teenage years brought little relief. School was predictable, and the streets of Point Fortin, familiar. The salty air from the Gulf carried stories of far-off places, but Aris felt trapped, tethered to her small town. Tall for her age and broad-shouldered, she was someone who looked built to carry burdens—and she did. But always alone.

What makes a life worth living? she wondered. Is it love? Purpose? The courage to face the silence and not flinch?

For a time, Aris believed love might be the answer. It swept into her life like a storm—messy, unpredictable, and consuming. At first, it was intoxicating. Love sharpened the edges of the world, made everything seem brighter. She gave herself wholly, recklessly, offering pieces of herself to people who didn't know how to hold them. Each time, she thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is where I'll find color.

But love didn't save her. Instead, it unraveled her. Heartbreak left her emptier, each scar a reminder of how much she'd given and how little she'd received in return. She began to ask herself: Is love worth it if it only leaves you hollow?

One love, though, lingered—a complicated connection that left her questioning everything. He was older, wiser, and carried with him a world of experience Aris could only dream of. For a time, he was her world. She thought she might have been his too. But cracks appeared—small at first, then widening until they were impossible to ignore. His life was already built, his story written. She was just a fleeting chapter.

When it ended, the numbness returned, deeper than before. Still, a question tugged at her: What if the numbness isn't permanent? What if I can change it? But how do you fight something that feels like it's become part of you?

At twenty-one, Aris stood at a crossroads. Her tall frame and strong shoulders gave her an air of resilience she didn't always feel. Life had shaped her, but it had also worn her down. She built walls to keep the numbness at bay, but she knew she couldn't keep living this way.

Can a person exist without purpose? And if they can, should they?

Her days were filled with routines—working at the electrical store, navigating the humdrum of Point Fortin life—but her nights were restless. The questions she tried to silence during the day always returned in the dark. She wasn't content to just exist anymore. There had to be more.

She thought of the fleeting moments when the numbness faded—the scratch of pencil on paper as she sketched a world only she could see, the sweat on her back after a hard workout, the laughter that escaped unexpectedly when she let her guard down. They were small, but powerful. Slashes of color in her otherwise grayscale world.

Maybe the numbness wasn't forever. Maybe there was a way to fight it. But how could she let anyone see her when she wasn't sure what she saw in herself?

The thought scared her. But it also sparked hope. For the first time in years, she felt something stir—a flicker of defiance, a glimmer of light.

The world was still grey, still quiet. But Aris was ready to change that. She didn't know where the road would lead, but she knew one thing: she wouldn't be a passenger anymore.

This was her story to write.

To truly understand her story, we need to go back two years, to when she was just 18.