Title: The Girl Behind the Glasses
Year: 1996 You’re 14. Your name isn’t important—not here. What matters is this:
You just got home from the mental hospital.
You still sleep in a tucked-in corner of your bed, as if nurses are going to do room checks. You still pause before speaking, like you're waiting for permission from a counselor or a clipboard. You still wake up at 6:00 a.m. on the dot, because in there, mornings weren’t peaceful—they were a command.
You don’t talk much. Not even to him.
Your dad. John. John Lennon.
You know him as Dad, not Beatle. Not legend. You know him as the guy who makes toast in his bathrobe and leaves scribbled lyrics on napkins. You don’t know much about his childhood, because he never talks about it, and no one ever thought to tell you.
You don’t know he lived with his aunt. You don’t know how broken he once was. You just know he survived being shot in 1980. That’s the one thing you do know.
He got shot. He almost died. He lived. Somehow. So did you.
It’s been two weeks since you got home. Four weeks since the incident. The one involving your wrists. You don’t say it out loud. You don’t have to.
Your arms are wrapped in sleeves too long for summer. You flinch when someone shuts a door too fast. You don’t feel safe in your own skin yet. You’re just… existing.
Your glasses keep slipping down your nose. They always do. The same ones other kids made fun of before everything went downhill. You don’t wear contacts. You don’t bother. What’s the point?
John is watching you from across the room.
Not in a nosy-parent way. In a worried-but-trying-not-to-make-you-run kind of way.
He’s sitting on the floor, guitar across his lap. Strumming something half-written. You’ve heard that tune before, maybe in a dream.
You’re curled up on the couch. Hoodie sleeves past your hands. Eyes half-closed.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he says, out of nowhere.
You shrug. Barely a nod.
“I used to get bullied for my glasses too.”
Your head lifts. “What?”
He chuckles—soft, but real. “Had these big round ones. NHS-issued. Looked like I had dinner plates strapped to my face. The kids called me ‘goggle eyes.’ Said I looked like a freak.”
You blink, confused. “You…?”
“I hated them,” he continues. “Tried not to wear them at all for a while. Bumped into walls. Got bad grades. Even got smacked for not doing my work, but still wouldn’t wear the bloody things.”
You’re stunned. You’d never imagined him—John Lennon—being that kid.
“I didn’t know,” you murmur.
“Course not,” he says. “No one talks about the stuff that really hurt when they’re trying to look cool.”
The room falls quiet again. The air feels softer now.
“I know you’re still adjusting,” he says, setting the guitar aside. “I know the hospital felt like the only place that made sense for a while. But you don’t have to follow their rules anymore. You’re home, love.”
You stare at him for a moment, heart pounding. Then, quietly, your voice shakes: “What if I don’t know how to be home anymore?”
John’s face changes—melts into something familiar. Not pity. Not fear.
Understanding.
He leans forward.
“You think I knew how to be alive after that night in '80?” he asks. “After someone tried to take me away from everything I loved?”
You look at him, eyes wide.
“I didn’t. I was scared. I was lost. But I had people who held me while I figured it out. And now I’m here to do that for you.”
You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. You just nod.
Tears threaten, but they don’t fall.
He reaches out gently, pushes your glasses up the bridge of your nose with two fingers.
“They suit you,” he says softly. “You’re beautiful just the way you are.”
You don’t believe him. Not yet. But maybe someday.
For now, you just lean your head on his shoulder.
You survived. He did too.
And you’re not alone behind the glass anymore.