The Prism They placed a prism by the window, where the morning light poured in. A single beam entered the glass, and scattered across the room in ribbons of color. Red spilled across the floor, bright as embers in a fire. "Anger," someone said. "Too fierce. Too much." But another saw courage, the kind that stands its ground when everything else gives way. And someone who had once been burned stepped quietly away. Blue gathered along the wall, deep as the ocean before dawn. "Cold," someone whispered. "Distant. Hard to reach." But another saw peace, the stillness of water after a restless storm. And someone who had known loneliness mistook the silence for indifference. Gold stretched toward the ceiling, warm as the last light of summer. "Pride," someone remarked. "Always needing to shine." But another saw joy, the kind that gives its warmth without asking for anything back. Green rested on the windowsill, soft as leaves after rain. "Envy," one decided. "Always wanting something more." But another saw growth, the quiet strength of roots reaching toward what they need. And violet lingered at the edges, rich as the sky before nightfall. "Secretive," said one. "Melancholy," said another. But someone else saw depth, the beauty of things that do not reveal themselves all at once. Soon, the room filled with voices. Some admired the colors. Others distrusted them. Some found comfort in the blue and danger in the red. Others found warmth in the red and loneliness in the blue. Each spoke from what they knew, from what they loved, from what they feared, and from what had hurt them before. And each believed they had seen the whole. Was the prism warm or cold? Gentle or fierce? Bright or withdrawn? Surely it could not be both. Yet the prism remained, beneath the same sun, holding the same light. It had not become another thing simply because someone had seen another side. Then someone noticed something curious. The one who called red dangerous had once been fierce in defense of someone they loved. The one who called blue unfeeling had learned to grow quiet when their own heart was hurting. And the one who questioned why violet kept so much hidden had secrets of their own that they entrusted to very few. Perhaps they were not so different from the prism. Perhaps everyone in that room held colors the others had never been allowed to see. And perhaps some of those colors were difficult to understand. For not every edge was gentle. Not every encounter left warmth. Some words had wounded. Some silence had hurt. And seeing another color could not undo what had been done. But neither could one wound tell the whole story of the glass that held it. To see someone fully was not to call every color beautiful, or every sharp edge harmless. It was simply to recognize that what was real was not always all there was. That gentleness could live beside great strength. That someone could be guarded and still carry tenderness. That anger could exist beside love, and sorrow beside joy. And that seeing these things in ourselves should make us slower to deny them in another. The room grew quiet. For the red was real. So was the blue. And neither needed to disappear for the other to be true. They had all seen something. But none had seen everything. The prism had never asked to be innocent of its edges, nor to be known by only one. It simply held the light, with all its colors, whether anyone understood them or not. And perhaps that was the lesson waiting there in the sunlight: To see a color is one thing. To understand it is another. And to know the whole prism requires more than standing where we have always stood.