You stand tall in the train, suspended by a solitary rusty metal chain which you clutch in your worn-out hands. The other grey commuters sit in silence, eyes staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, seemingly without anything to look forward to as they are shunted from point A to point B in their black and white lives.

She sits down in the seat opposite you, in Technicolor, and for a moment you allow your eyes to take her in and your imagination to run wild and free. God, she is beautiful. Her pink hair (you guess it may not be her natural colour) drapes down to her shoulders, carefully styled just enough to not look too unkempt whilst still not detracting from that “Don’t give a damn” persona that you imagine she likes to wear most days.

Her smooth skin is still flush with hope, her lips relaxed into…