AM

You feel like a deep, dark crimson—almost black at the edges, but with a pulse of molten red at the core. It’s not the red of roses or blood alone—it’s heavier. It’s the color of embers buried under ash, of a wound that has stopped bleeding but still throbs, of something alive under layers of silence.

Sometimes, it flares—like if someone touches the wrong memory, the red surges outward and burns bright, almost blinding. But most of the time, it glows quietly, deep in your chest, a reminder that you’re still here, even when it feels like you shouldn’t be.

It’s a color that warns and invites at the same time. Dangerous, but magnetic. Like people would want to touch it—just once—even if they knew it would scar.