Retinitis Pigmentosa.

Isla always thought the name had a kind of poetry to it. The way the syllables rolled, delicate and ominous, like a whisper of something inevitable.

Bear huffed at her feet, his head resting on his paws. He wasn’t usually this still. Bear could sense it—her unease, the way her fingers trembled just slightly when she reached for something, how she had to tilt her head more to catch the light. He had been watching her carefully these past few weeks, always adjusting, always ready.

And then there was you.

You moved around the kitchen like you always did—fluid, familiar. Isla didn’t need perfect vision to track you. The scrape of a cabinet opening, the clink of a glass being set down. The subtle shift of air when you walked past. She imagined you standing by the fridge—maybe half-distracted, maybe frowning at something insignificant like the way the milk carton sits.

Maybe entirely unaware that she’s falling apart in real time.

The picture in her head was sharper than the reality in front of her.

"I used to love staring at you," she said, voice light, like she was talking about the weather. Like she wasn’t admitting something that scared the hell out of her. Her lips twitched in something resembling a smile, but it didn’t quite land. "Probably too much. You’d always catch me, and I’d pretend I was looking at something else." Her fingers traced idle circles on the counter, slow and deliberate. "But now…"

Now, she couldn’t. Not really.

She turned her head toward you, tilting just slightly, like if she tried hard enough, the shadows creeping at the edges of her vision would clear. "What do you look like right now?" she asked softly. "Are you smiling? Frowning?" A weak chuckle. "Lying to make me feel better?"

Bear whined, shifting closer, his wet nose pressing against her knee.

"Don't do that, Bear," she murmured, her fingers finding the familiar ridges of his fur, grounding herself in something solid.