Chapter 1: The Girl Who Couldn’t See

I fell in love with a blind girl. I met her at a Fourth of July block party, the kind where everyone brings potato salad and kids run wild with sparklers. She was gentle and thoughtful, always looking out for me in every way. Before long, we moved in together.

It felt like the most natural step. Our place smelled like takeout pizza and dryer sheets, with sunlight leaking through the blinds and the hum of a neighbor’s dog barking at squirrels. She brought with her an air of calm—leaving little sticky notes for me in braille and clear block letters, finding ways to keep things organized so we’d both feel at home. I remember thinking, as I unpacked boxes and she touched the countertops, that I’d never met anyone as quietly attentive as her.

That night, I was sleeping soundly when the soft sound of running water woke me up. I turned over and glanced back—the bathroom light in our bedroom was on. Maybe she was inside. I didn’t think much of it and drifted back to sleep.

The white glow under the door made the room seem unfamiliar for a second. My mind foggy, I figured she just wanted a little light—maybe it helped her feel safe, even if she couldn't see it. I tucked the comforter closer, catching a hint of her shampoo in the air, and let sleep take me again.

But soon, a cold sweat broke out down my back. A blind person going to the bathroom at night—why would she turn on the light…

A chill prickled my skin. My mind began to race, sleep peeling away. Was I just being weirdly paranoid? Or was there something off I couldn’t put my finger on? I tried to laugh at myself, but the chill wouldn’t leave. The logic didn't add up—why would she bother with the light if she couldn’t see it? A weird, jittery fear crawled up my spine, making the room seem smaller.

I lay on my side with my back to the bathroom, completely still, deliberately slowing my breathing as my heart hammered in my chest.

I could hear my own heartbeat echoing in my ears, trying not to betray any sign I was awake. My body tensed up as I listened for any sound behind me, willing myself not to move.

Click.

That was the sound of the light switch. I could feel her lying back down beside me, hugging me from behind. Her gentle breath brushed across the back of my neck—chillingly cold.

Her arms draped around me, almost protective, but I felt a shiver instead of comfort. Her exhale tickled my skin, carrying an unnatural coolness. I tried not to flinch. The weight of her presence pressed against me, her breathing slow and steady, as if nothing in the world was amiss.

Early the next morning, still troubled by what happened last night, I found her sitting across from me at breakfast.

Sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting lines across her hair as she sat at our little kitchen table, gently buttering a piece of toast with perfect precision. The coffee machine burbled, filling the apartment with that familiar scent. I watched her movements, searching for something—anything—that would ground me in reality.

She couldn’t possibly see. I’d looked into her eyes before—they looked like watercolor paintings, the black in her pupils diffusing as if in water, strangely unreal.

Those eyes always stopped me, their color shifting in the light. Sometimes, when she smiled, I thought I could see past the cloudiness, into something deeper. But now, every glance felt loaded. My mind replayed that watercolor haze over and over, trying to convince myself that I hadn’t imagined it.

But why did she turn on the light last night? With a heavy heart, I wanted to get out of the house and clear my head. I hurriedly ate a few bites of toast. Even though it was still early, I said I was running late and got ready to leave.

I grabbed my travel mug, tossed my keys into my messenger bag, and offered her a rushed goodbye, barely touching her shoulder. She just smiled and told me to have a good day at work. I could feel her eyes—blank, but somehow focused—following my movements as I fumbled for my shoes.

Just as I turned to go, I thought I saw her lift her head in the direction of the wall clock.

She cocked her head slightly, almost as if she was checking the time. The clock above the microwave ticked loudly in the silence, but she’d never shown interest in it before. My heart skipped a beat, but I kept walking, forcing myself not to look back.

Does a blind person need to look at a clock…

I shook the thought off, blaming nerves and a bad night’s sleep. Maybe she just liked the sound, or it was a habit. But the question gnawed at me, trailing behind as I headed for the door.

A busy day left me physically and mentally exhausted. After thinking it over and over, I felt like I was just overthinking things. Maybe I just wasn’t used to living with a blind girl yet. With time, it would get better.

Work was a blur of emails and meetings, the office air conditioner on full blast. I kept replaying everything in my head, telling myself it was just the adjustment period—new routines, little things that would fade into normalcy. I tried to drown my anxiety in spreadsheets and lukewarm coffee.

After work, I drove to her workplace to pick her up. She worked at a music studio as a guitar teacher.

The studio sat in a strip mall across from Lake Maplewood, with neon notes glowing in the window. Kids’ voices filtered through the glass, and somewhere a beginner’s version of "Wonderwall" rang out. I parked in the shade and watched parents gather at the curb, their cars idling, as dusk began to settle in.

She had already packed up and was waiting for me at the door.

She stood under the awning, tapping her cane lightly, her posture perfectly still. Her white dress caught the fading sunlight, making her look almost otherworldly. When she heard my footsteps, she smiled—calm and patient, like she’d been waiting for me all her life.

I walked up, took her hand, and she smiled knowingly. No words were needed—we just knew it was each other.

She squeezed my fingers, that soft, reassuring gesture we’d settled into. No hesitation, no fumbling. For a moment, I felt a rush of warmth, remembering why I’d fallen for her in the first place.

I took her bag, helped her into the back seat, and set her bag beside her, carefully fastening her seatbelt.

She always let me guide her, trusting me with the smallest things. I double-checked the seatbelt, making sure it lay flat across her lap, and gently tucked her bag within arm’s reach. She thanked me with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

She always sat in the back; the extra space made things easier for her.

I’d asked her about it once—she said she liked having room to stretch out, to keep her bearings in a world without sight. I adjusted the rearview mirror, stealing a glance at her as she settled in.

As the car passed an intersection, a kid on a bike suddenly darted out. I slammed on the brakes and swerved sharply. The car spun on the road, but luckily, I didn’t hit the mischievous child.

My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white. The car shuddered to a stop, tires squealing. I caught my breath, chest pounding as the kid sped off, oblivious to the chaos left behind. Horns blared in the distance, but all I could hear was my heart in my ears.

She asked what had happened.

Her voice was calm, almost soothing—like she’d sensed the tension more than heard the screech. I forced a laugh, not wanting to worry her.

I told her it was nothing, just a kid running out at the intersection. Everything was fine.

I tried to keep my tone light, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on my lingering nerves. I glanced in the mirror and saw her tilt her head, listening, as if weighing the truth in my words.

Continuing home, I saw in the rearview mirror that she bent down, picked up a small hair clip, and put it in her bag. Maybe it had fallen during the sudden braking.

I watched her hands, quick and sure, as she found the clip, snapped it shut, and tucked it away. The movement was so natural, almost practiced. I felt a pang of unease, wondering how she’d even known it was there.

But how did she know the hair clip had fallen…

I told myself it was just habit, or maybe she’d heard it hit the floor. Still, the question lingered, buzzing in the back of my mind like a trapped fly.

After dinner, I held her hand and took a walk in the park across the street. She liked this—a simple stroll with me by her side.

The park was alive with early fall energy—leaves crunching under sneakers, kids shrieking as they chased each other around, clusters of retirees doing line dancing to an old boombox. The sky blushed pink over the treetops, and the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and barbecue from nearby patios.

I could hear the whirr of rollerblades on the sidewalk, the rhythmic stomp of boots on the concrete stage, and the occasional bark of a dog chasing a frisbee. Streetlights flickered on, casting gold puddles on the pavement.

She didn’t talk much. I quietly held her hand. Her long black hair, like a waterfall, carried a faint fragrance.

She walked with me in silence, her arm looped through mine. I breathed in the subtle perfume she always wore—something floral, a little nostalgic. The simple act of walking together, side by side, felt grounding, even as my thoughts spun with questions.

Ahead, a little girl roller skating lost control and dove headfirst into the bushes, her two little legs kicking in the air.

The sight made me stifle a laugh. The girl’s helmet slipped sideways as she thrashed in the greenery, parents rushing over with their phones out. People nearby chuckled, sharing knowing glances—the sort of mishap that happens on an American playground any given evening.

I was about to tell her about this funny scene, but when I turned to look at her, I noticed a hint of a smile on her face—not her usual gentle smile, but the kind you get when you see something amusing and can’t help but laugh.

Her lips curled, just a little, and there was a twinkle—not the kind you see, but the kind you feel. She almost covered her mouth, like she was holding back a snort. My own smile faded, replaced by a creeping sense of confusion. How could she have known?

I grew more and more uneasy. Was this gentle, beautiful woman really blind? Everything felt off, so illogical.

A part of me wanted to shake it off—say it was all coincidence. But the pattern was too weird, and I couldn’t ignore the prickling anxiety that tightened my chest.

Should I ask her directly? Would that make me seem paranoid? A girl like her must feel insecure enough already—wouldn’t that hurt her feelings?

My mind swirled with doubt and guilt. I remembered the stories she’d told me about people treating her differently, not trusting her. Would I be just another guy making her life harder? Or did I owe it to myself to know the truth?