She was ten, and the world had finally come into focus—violently, wondrously so.
Trees were no longer green clouds glued to brown trunks. They were a thousand intricate decisions, each leaf deliberate. Street signs were not just whispers to adults anymore; they spoke to her, too. The world, she learned, was edged.
The glasses were heavier than she expected. They smelled faintly metallic, like pennies or science. But it was the precision of them that made her feel a little dizzy, as though she had been promoted to a clearer version of existence she was not quite ready for.
Then, her brother called her four-eyes. It was said with a smirk, casually cruel. He didn't even mean it. It’s a reflex—like sneezing or teasing.
Still, she began to wear the glasses less. The blur was softer. The blur did not name her.
Her parents didn’t push. They encouraged. Gently. Like gardeners coaxing a bloom rather than demanding it.
“Try them for dinner,” her dad said once, sliding the plate in front of her like a peace offering.
“You might like reading better with them on,” her mom added later, placing a new book at her bedside, spine uncracked, world unopened.
One night, she fell asleep—or pretended to—on the couch, glasses still perched on her nose. She felt them before she heard them: her parents entering the room, their footsteps tender as breath.
They leaned over her, not speaking at first. She imagined they were studying her the way one does a painting or a newborn animal—something both familiar and newly miraculous.
Then, she heard her voice. Soft as dusk.
“Have you ever seen someone look so beautiful in glasses?”
A pause. And then, his voice—deeper, certain:
“No, never.”
They lingered for a beat. She held her breath, afraid it might shatter the moment. And then they tiptoed away, back into the rhythm of dishes or bedtime or marriage.
She kept her eyes closed, but not out of pretense anymore. She was trying to memorize this—this weightless kind of love, the kind that doesn’t fix or force or correct, but simply sees you, perfectly, even as you’re still learning to see yourself.
Later, when she opened her eyes, the room was darker, but not dim. Through the lenses, the ceiling became constellations of tiny cracks and shadows. The air looked clearer somehow.
She left the glasses on.
