The Girl Made of Yellow

She is yellow. Not just in the color she wears, but in the way she exists—like the first golden streaks of dawn spilling over the horizon, kissing the world awake with gentle warmth. Her hair is a cascade of sunlight, rich and golden, tumbling in loose waves that gleam as though woven from honey and spun silk. Each strand catches the light, glistening like sun-drenched fields of wheat swaying in a late summer breeze. When she moves, her hair moves with her, shimmering, shifting, as if it holds the very essence of the sun itself.

Her eyes, deep and endless, are the color of amber held up to the light—soft, warm, radiant. They glimmer with the same brilliance as sunlight filtering through autumn leaves, rich with warmth and life. When she laughs, those eyes crinkle at the corners, tiny crescent moons of joy etched into her skin, a testament to a soul that has spent a lifetime smiling. Her laughter is music—effervescent, golden, bubbling like champagne poured under a canopy of fairy lights. It spills from her lips, peachy and soft, the color of a sunrise meeting a blooming rose, curving so easily into a smile that feels like the promise of a perfect day.

Her nose, delicate and dusted with freckles, is as if the sun itself leaned down and kissed her, leaving tiny golden specks behind, each one a little star dotting her skin. They scatter across the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, little flecks of light that dance when she turns her face toward the sky.

She wraps herself in yellow, not just in fabric but in spirit. Flowing daffodil-colored skirts swirl around her legs as she walks, catching the wind like petals in motion. Soft, buttery sweaters cling to her shoulders, inviting, warm, the kind of warmth that makes people feel safe, like a hug on a crisp morning. She is the color of lemon tarts cooling on a windowsill, of marigolds stretching toward the sun, of fireflies glowing in the twilight. She carries summer in her soul, springtime in her step, and the promise of golden hours in her touch.

She does not simply brighten a room—she transforms it. Like the first beams of sunlight piercing through a raincloud, like the golden glow of candlelight on a quiet evening, she makes everything feel warmer, softer, more alive. She is not just yellow. She is light itself.

But when she looks in the mirror, yellow changes. It sours.

Her hair, once golden, now feels brittle and dry, like old parchment, breaking apart in clumps. It doesn't shimmer in the light anymore; it feels like something that’s been abandoned, left too long in the dark. She remembers when it used to shine, when it used to fall in waves around her face like it was meant to. That was before—before she became someone else, someone she doesn’t recognize. Now, her hair is just a reminder of what she’s lost, what she’s become.

Her eyes, those wide, curious eyes that used to take in the world with such wonder, have turned dull and tired. She doesn’t see brightness in them anymore, just weariness. They’re stained, the color of nicotine, like a house that’s been lived in too long without care. They’ve lost the sparkle, the life, the joy. Now they only look back at her, exhausted, as if searching for a way out, but never finding one. Dark circles cling to them like bruises, pulling down the skin beneath, and when she stares into them, all she sees is a woman who’s stuck—stuck in a room she can’t escape from.

Her lips are cracked, pale, the color of old bone. They’re pressed together in a tight line, a line that doesn’t bend, doesn’t soften. There’s no room for laughter there, not anymore. She can remember the laughter. The real laughter. The laughter that used to come so easily when she was younger, when the world felt big and full of possibility. But now, the laughter is gone, replaced by an ache in her chest she can’t shake. The smile that once came so naturally feels foreign to her now. Her face, once soft with life, is now hardened by something heavy, something she doesn’t know how to fight.

Her nose, speckled with freckles, now feels like another sign of something sick—something fading. She remembers how they used to be charming, these freckles, a mark of youth and innocence. But now, every freckle is just another reminder of how far she’s fallen. Of how much she’s changed. She doesn’t see beauty in them anymore. She sees how it all slowly fades, how something that was once full of life becomes something fragile, something that can’t hold itself together.

Her clothes, once vibrant with color, now seem too loud, too bright, too out of place. The yellow, once warm and inviting, now feels like a warning. It’s the color of caution tape, of things that people are afraid to touch. It’s not light anymore. It’s something that tells people to stay away, to keep their distance. She wants to pull away from it, too. She wants to hide from the yellow, from everything it represents. She used to wear yellow because it made her feel alive.

She’s trapped in this room, this room of her own making. It smells of stale air, of old things that can’t be fixed. The walls are closing in, and she can’t find a way out. She remembers being a child, when everything was full of light, when the world was a place to be explored. She remembers laughing so hard it hurt, playing until the sun went down, not caring about anything except the next adventure. She doesn’t remember when it changed. She doesn’t know when it started to feel like this. But now, every day feels the same—like she’s fighting to breathe in a room that’s slowly suffocating her. The joy is gone. The hope is gone. She’s not the person she once was, and she can’t find her way back to her.

People look at her and see a smile. They see someone who’s just tired, someone who’ll snap out of it. But when she looks at herself, she sees a woman drowning in a suffocating stillness. She doesn’t see beauty. She doesn’t see light. She doesn’t see anything but the heaviness that has become her. She’s not sure when she stopped being someone worth looking at. She’s not sure when she stopped being someone who could be loved.

She walks away from the mirror, and she knows it’s true. There’s no escaping what she feels. She’s trapped in this version of herself, this sickly reflection of what was once a bright, hopeful girl. And as much as she wishes she could change it; she knows that yellow—both inside and out—has become a part of her.