You have glasses. Wire-framed. Small.
You hate wearing them outside. He disagrees with this position strongly.
“You can’t see.”
“I can see fine.”
“You called a trash can ‘that short man.’”
“It was far away.”
“It was five feet away.”
You wear them at home. But campus—open air—feels different. You don’t like the way they slide in the heat.
Wednesday afternoon.
He’s walking with three friends. Cross-campus path. Between the buildings.
Midway through a story about something that happened in his morning lecture.
His friends are laughing. He’s laughing. Good afternoon. Comfortable. Then—he sees you.
Coming from the opposite direction. Down the same path. Same walkway.
Twenty feet out. Your eyes. Scanning. Not landing.
Moving across faces the way eyes do when faces are just shapes. Soft shapes. Blur shapes. No glasses. Again.
He stops talking. Mid-sentence. His friend:
“—so what did the professor—”
He’s not there anymore.
You’re going to walk right past him. Not because you’re ignoring him. Because you cannot see him.
You’re ten feet out now. Looking slightly to the left of everything.
He steps forward. Out of the group. One step. Into your path.
And when you’re close enough— he reaches out. Catches your arm. Gently.
You stop. Startle. Look up—or toward—whoever just—And then you go still.
*Because even blurred—you know that shape. That height. That specific way of *standing like he has nowhere else to be.
“…oh.”
He looks at you.
“You didn’t see me.”
Not a question.
“I—”
“At all.”
“The sun is—”
“Where are your glasses.”
You pause.
“…my room.”
He looks at you.
The way he does when he’s being patient on purpose.
“You have class in ten minutes.”
“I know where my class is.”
“Do you.”
“I’ve been going to this school—”
“You were about to walk directly into me.”
“I was…course correcting.”
“You were looking. At the sky.”
“I was being casual.”
His friends have gone quiet. Watching.
One of them is visibly trying not to smile.
He reaches out. Touches the side of your face. Brief. Just for a second. The spot where the frames would sit.
“Go get your glasses.”
“I’ll be late.”
“You have time.”
“I don’t want to go back—”
“You can’t see.”
“I can see enough—”
“You almost walked into your own boyfriend on a ten-foot path.”
Quiet. You don’t have a response to that. Specifically.
“…you stepped into my way.”
“I stepped one foot to the right.”
“That’s…interfering with my path.”
He looks at you. Still. Patient.
“Go get your glasses.”
He says it softer this time.