Chapter 1:

1

I See

“I see.”

A burst of laughter erupts in the darkness. It is directed towards me.

“This is the last thing we should hear from you!” a voice says mockingly.

I don’t mind. I’ve long grown familiar to this kind of scathing banter. My face turns toward the voice, sporting a smile in return.

“But it’s so simple and convenient. I can’t use it because I’m blind?”

“Sorry, sorry. You just remind us of some meme we saw online,” another voice jumps in, a pitch higher than the other.

“Oh really? If only I could see it for myself.”

Another round of laughter. Several pats on my back. The friends that I have surrounded myself with are just like that.

The conversation quickly shifts to other things, perhaps in consideration of me.

The brand-new trinket of the day, talk of pretty girls in our class, late night TV – things that I can’t experience myself, so I slowly retreat into the background.

Rarely, am I included. Rarely, enough motivation for my convenience is considered.

It’s no wonder my blindness is treated as more than just that. Too deaf to pick up on what they say. Too mute to spin words that complement theirs.

I’m off in another world, separated by the barrier of ignorance. Occasional moments of kindness form cracks, but perhaps, it is all for the best.

A ringtone jingle interrupts the banter, and slowly, a hand reaches inside a pocket.

“Hyu~ hyu~ Is it your girlfriend again?”

A cold moment of hesitation.

“Y-Yeah, let me reply back…”

The beep of keystrokes hang in the air, deliberate and spaced some time in between. I can see beads of sweat rolling off your brow as you type those hidden words. I smell something amid the anxiety that you face.

Perhaps, it’s that lavender masked under your cologne? The very smell that your girlfriend once said she hates.

I doubt the others have noticed. Statements often fly past deaf ears. But not mine. Not when it is all I have to tell me what is beyond my reach.

Your breathing grows rapid, Mr. Cheater. Best make your message short and sweet.

A few short clicks later and the phone is hidden once again. Though the evidence is stashed away, its impact continues to linger. The air is still cold around you, as if wishing to smother the flames of possible drama.

Once again, the banter starts up again, but with one voice conspicuously absent.

“So you see, I’m thinking of joining the soccer team. I think I have what it takes.”

“W-With you as striker, the championship is well in reach!”

Prideful talk. An acknowledgement full of admiration.

Alone, those words seem innocent enough. But I can see a distinct quiver in the second voice, which makes it feel like he is reaching.

Reaching for approval. Reaching for acceptance. The statements thereafter cling to hope as if distance is the enemy.

The sound of hands in pockets shift uncomfortably. The echo of steps pacing in a circle are like a predator converging on its prey.

But all of a sudden, the deadlock is broken.

“Hey, why are you hovering all over me? I have enough trouble with girls doing the same. I don’t need a guard squad, okay?”

A hasty retreat sounds as rushed steps clatter on the pavement. A swivel of the foot checks that the distance is far enough. And once again, a status quo is maintained.

A saccharine disappointment develops on my tongue. It’s like I tasted something that was so sweet but short-lived.

You don’t stand a chance, Mr. Happy. Not when the competition is so stiff.

The air radiates with a warmth, gone noticed by the bystander that is me. If I don’t pick up signals such as these, then how much more would I miss?

An awkward silence persists. The four of us have nothing more to say. Our banter only goes so far, especially when things don’t go our way.

“…Where is he? It’s fifteen minutes past the meeting time.”

Hands shift in pockets once again. Exasperated sighs all around. I can see no one has heard from him.

But then, rushed movement echoes in the distance. All heads turn to it.

“Sorry, I’m late, guys! I overslept!”

Footsteps turn into a slid. Haggard breathing adds to the story. To others, that is enough to dismiss his whereabouts.

A whiff of tobacco tickles my nose as he walks by. The others are too busy talking to notice. Mr. Tardy is too busy covering his tracks to bother.

There is an exhaustion in his words. They don’t seem like someone well rested. His breath reeks of coffee. A foul odor drifts over as he adjusts his coat. The sweat of running all the way here is overpowered by something else.

Likely, he had skipped taking a bath. Likely, he was so wrapped up in something that he did it all night.

A light jingle in his pockets tells me what it is – the clanking of tiny metal balls, leftover from leaving in a rush.

Did he score big in his illegal venture? Pachinko is not for kids.

The weariness in his tone shoots down that thought.

“Hey, can you spare some bus fare for me? I left my wallet at the house.”

Lies – so easily confirmed, if one knew where to look.

The crinkle of a fresh bill is carried by the wind. Misplaced gratitude follows as well.

“Thank you, thank you! I promise to pay you back… when I get my allowance next!”

That hesitation makes me skeptical. They are the words of an addict. Still, Mr. Charitable waves it off, satisfied that he is helping a friend.

Friends – carrying secrets unnoticed.

Friends – doing things that could be seen.

And all I have to say is…