Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I woke to the weight of my blanket, tangled around my shoulders like a heavy fog. The mattress creaked beneath me, familiar and predictable, but my head was anything but. Dizzy, lightheaded, a vague pressure pressing behind my eyes. The room hummed quietly, but I couldn’t tell if it was the house settling, the wind outside, or the low vibration of my own pulse. I hated it when that happened. When my body was so alert, that I could hear my own heartbeat without feeling my chest. 

‘Though, at least these days I knew what I was so tense about…’

Somewhere, unseen but ever-present, Diluc was watching. Like a fucking ghoul that haunted the house, like the pasty prick he was. I rolled over and muttered, mostly to myself. I could tell he was just looking out for me, like the ‘I-hate-to-admit-it’ good brother he is. His gaze settled like an invisible force, quiet and insistent. A hawk, a silent sentinel. I didn’t need to see him. I could already feel his eyes on me.

‘Ironic isn’t it?’

Sliding my legs over the edge of the bed, I shuffled across the carpet. Each fiber brushed against my ankles, rough and soft in patches, guiding me like a map I knew by heart. The bathroom. Toilet. I paused, hesitation creeping in. 

‘Taking a piss wasn’t ever this difficult.’ 

I laughed. My head started to get fuzzy, the bathroom lights were always so much brighter than the rest of the lights in the house.

Poor aim wasn’t just inconvenient anymore, it was a gamble I couldn’t afford. Taking no chances, I sat slowly, deliberate, muttering to myself as if pacing my thoughts would keep them from escaping. Sure it felt dehumanizing, but sitting hardly reached the top ten in my list these days. Lazy? Maybe. Girly? Fine. Let them think. Let every damn bastard-

‘What was the point of getting angry right now. At nobody and everybody at the same time.

Nothing will fix this.

Nothing will delay the inevitable.’

Soap was cool and sharp against my skin. I lathered carefully, tracing every line of my hands. Fingertips, palms, backs, knuckles. Clean, measured, methodical. Brushing my teeth, ‘fuck’ I squeezed too much toothpaste, then cupped water in my hands, swirling it in my mouth instead of spitting. Less mess. Effective enough. Enough. Perfection had been a casualty long ago.

Clothes were next, and the wardrobe greeted me like an overstuffed maze. Fingers trailed along the fabrics, brushing textures to find familiarity. Cotton, wool, soft leather trim. I pulled a pair of pants and a shirt that felt right, smooth, known. Socks and shoes followed the same ritual: touch, assess, adjust. Anchored. Ready.

‘I pray to the gods that my socks match.’

Stepping out of my room, I felt it immediately: Diluc’s gaze, lingering and intense. Somewhere he waited, somewhere he judged, somewhere he cared too much for his own damn good. I shivered, both comforted and annoyed. Then came the faint curl of scent: Crepus, father. Tobacco, leather, something faintly spicy and rich. Breakfast cooking. Predictable. Reassuring. Eggs, maybe toast, probably a coffee somewhere in the background. Not Diluc’s style. He would have burned the eggs again. The heat from the frying pan reaches my cheeks, the window is shut, and I can feel a static in the air. 

“Heading out?” Crepus’s voice carried warmth, but concern threaded through it like fine silver. I could tell he was worried, and that’s putting it lightly.

“Coffee. Nearby. I’ll get the milk too.” I said, tilting my head slightly toward the kitchen counter. “I’ll be quick.”

Father sighed, long, heavy, a sign of his worry. “Take your foldable-”

I cut him off. I can’t. Not today. Give me a damn break. 

‘Please.’ 

“If I was a girl, you wouldn’t let me out without pepper spray! I’m old enough to get a coffee on my own, right pop’s?”

Silence. Good. I adjusted my jacket, brushing along seams, buttons, zippers. Feeling them anchor me. Orientation. Control. I ignore how the zipper doesn’t actually zip up, I honestly couldn’t care less right now. Would the world end at this moment? Because I fucked up zipping my jacket up? 

‘Worser things have happened’.

Outside, the wind tugged at my jacket and hair, insistent, intrusive. Sun must be high, bright. Shielded my eyes anyway. Habit. My fingers pressed against the cold metal of the pedestrian button, feeling each ridge, each dent. I rubbed them together. Dry, cracked. Without even looking it felt like a hangnail. 

‘Fuckety fucks sake.’

 Moisturizer would come later.
Not for vanity.
Not anymore.

Yeah so what? I’ve become a little… germaphobic these days? Who are you to judge? To laugh? To mock.

You know how many surfaces you touch on a daily basis? It’s just another add on. A constant worry. Another anxiety, where the fuck are my hands, what have I touched. I used to bite my nails, not anymore. I don’t want anything near my face. Sunglasses are heavy enough. I don’t feel at ease until I’m home. Until I can have clean hands. 

Gloves, in summer? No. Fuck no. 

I don’t want people to look at me like I’m a freak.

‘I already know they do.’

Steps counted in my head. One, two, three… toes brushing curbs, listening for distant traffic, the click of a shoe on concrete, a horn, someone’s laugh. The city was alive with invisible obstacles, if you just knew where to look: uneven pavement, stray chairs, a loose manhole cover, the occasional dog barking down the street. Each step required attention. Each step was deliberate.

The coffee shop arrived gradually. I was greeted by the smell first, warm, roasted beans, the soft sweetness of baked pastries. Fingers traced the counter’s edge. Orientation. “Three coffees. Large, black, to-go.” I said.

“The card machine’s down.” The cashier replied.

‘That’s just fine and dandy! No problemo! 

Moron. Jerk.’

Cash. I dug into my wallet, brushing along edges of notes and coins. Not counting. Identifying. Fumbling. Each note a gamble. Notes and coins. Notes and coins. Notes and coins. My jaw pressed against my lip. 

‘I can hear more people coming in from the bell at the door. 

There’s gonna be a que behind me.’

Coins? They all feel the same. Which is stupid. Because they aren’t.

Notes? Yes.

I pull a slide of paper notes out of my wallet, I hear a gasp from the cashier. Fuck.

How much was it again?

‘Which one more like.’

I slide a few notes with my fingertips, I think I have two in my hand. Maybe three. It’s a gamble, but it’s my best bet.

“And a carton of whole milk too.”

“Yes sir! Absolutely!” 

What the hell's got her in such a good mood? I hear someone from the back of the que mutter. “Whole milk’s not good for you. Think of your heart, flower.”

‘Shut up.

As if you know what my body is like.

The cashier grabs, tugs the notes out of my hand greedily. I say nothing and hope it’s enough, though I feel my wallet again, just in case I need to pull out another note.

The cashier bags up my carton, and slides the cardboard carrier of coffee cups my way. I can feel its warmth already dispersing on the counter. I make my way to grab towards it.

Someone, maybe the person behind me in the queue, or perhaps at the counter with me staring at the baked pastries coughed. I braced myself, was I in the way?

“Ma’am? His change?”

I heard the cashier tssk and mutter something. 

‘Hnn, well her attitude has totally changed.’

“Here’s your change.”

No ‘Sir’ this time then.

I froze. Someone had stepped in. 

Relief.

Embarrassment.

Irritation. 

I gave a polite hum, tilting my head. The stranger, short, calm, careful, was a presence I didn’t recognize but somehow… didn’t feel like a threat.

Cup case and bag in hand, I left, holding the warmth close, tracing the sleeve with my fingers. The wind tugged again. I stumbled slightly over an uneven curb, muttering. The world was full of traps invisible to anyone else.

Halfway home, I noted each crack in the sidewalk, each subtle bump. A low mumble escaped me as I navigated. I panicked. Was I walking too slow? Was I hunched over? I should stand up straight. Fit in. Be presentable. Blend. The city hummed around me: a distant bus, a child’s laugh, the murmur of a conversation I couldn’t locate. Each sound, each vibration, was a coordinate, a lifeline.

The first faint scent of baked bread from a nearby shop caught my nose. I inhaled. Hunger? Maybe. Comfort? Definitely. I traced the wall of the building with my hand for guidance. Fences, doors, planters, all became tactile landmarks.

All in all, the trip shouldn’t take no longer than five minutes. But for me?

…Father must have reheated the food at least twice by now.

The bar stool in the kitchen greeted me as I slid onto it. My fingers traced the surface of the countertop, the warm mug of coffee between my shaky palms. I wait as the cloud before me becomes a more comfortable haze. I set in. The smells, the sounds, everything here affirms me I’m home. I made it. Sunglasses off. Hands over the grain of wood. Breath slow, measured.

“Your eye’s looking better today.” Someone lied, Father? Diluc? I didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Couldn’t s-.... Well they always looked so similar.

I smirked inwardly. Sure… as if. The lie wasn’t even good, I could practically feel the wince in his face as he said it, but it was a strange comfort nonetheless.

Because the truth, the one thing I never let anyone see, hidden beneath jokes, bravado, routines, small battles with coins, steps, the wind, the sunlight, was this:

I’m blind.

(A/N: Now go and reread this chapter again and see if you could catch the foreshadowing beforehand! And yes, that was Albedo that coughed in the coffeeshop!

I’m so glad to finally get this story up and running, I’ve always had this idea in mind but could never really settle on a buildable enough plot for it. 

While I’m here, if there’s anyone with and visual disabilities that would like to get in touch with me to share some experiences/vents/concerns or ideas please do so by either commenting here if you wish or if you prefer contact me via my open DM’s at my Twitter page @TricksterArtful I have done my research on this topic which is why it’s taken so long to actually get uploaded but I would love it if I had any readers that wanted to share their input! 

I will say this, in this story you will find out more about Kaeya later but, he isn’t ‘fully’ blind, but he does have a visual disability. Legally, he is blind, but he can make out shapes and shadows. Please do be respectful either way with any comments shared from this story.)

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled like eggs and coffee. Warm, greasy, familiar, the kind of smell that should feel comforting, except it didn’t. As expected father did place the food on a warmer, he didn’t say it, but I could feel the table was warmer than it usually was. I slid into my chair, listening to father pour milk into his coffee - apparently as a kid, he had this little bird, a budgie I think? That would tap and stir the teaspoon for him every morning. It would have been cool to see that, when my eyes were at least good. I wish he still had birds, but our apartment was small enough as it was. And there, of course, on the other side of the table was Diluc, perched like he always was, scanning the room with those infuriatingly sharp eyes. I could feel him watching, like an owl waiting for me to trip over my own foot. I swore silently at him.

‘Fun fact - ever since he was a little kid, my brother had always needed to wear glasses. Not that he ever did of course. He hated the thought of contacts too - something we share in common I guess despite not being blood related, in our mutual hate for having things touch our face.

I wish I could see it now. The stupid stubborn, almost permanent squint he has.’

I grabbed the handle of my chosen piece of cutlery, and tap the other end of it with my fingertips. I withheld a happy grunt. At least I correctly picked the fork this time.

‘See, hands? They touch everything.’

The fork trembled in my hand. I poked at the eggs, stabbed at nothing, cursed under my breath, and then, success! A bite finally landed in my mouth. Victory? Hardly. My elbow nudged the plate. Egg slid onto my sleeve.

“You have food on your sleeve.” Diluc said.

‘Thanks bastard! As if I couldn’t feel that!’

I waved my mess away like it was deliberate. “Accessorizing.” I muttered, which was definitely a lie, but it sounded better than “I am barely functioning.”

‘Father never makes me runny eggs no more. The way I liked it. Now it’s always easier to grab them scrambled.

Thank fuck I can’t see scrambled eggs anymore.

It always looked like chunky vomit to me.

Woe is me.’

I poked at my toast. The crust was too thick. I can feel every ridge, every uneven edge. Every bite a little challenge. Another little change father introduced into the household, thicker foods. Ugh. I love toast but crusts are the worst. I don’t want to end up getting curly hair like my brother! A bit of coffee slipped past my lips and burned the back of my throat. Bitter. Perfectly fitting. Just like life. Anyone who used coffee as an excuse to drink a beverage mostly consisting of syrup and whipped cream and who-the-fuck-knows what else are heathens.

Now that there was a lot less movement at the table, I could hear Father flickering through one of his books. Probably a Shakespeare novel if I’d have to guess. He’d been reading ‘The Tempest’ to me a few days ago. Father hummed something under his breath, his hands moving his butter knife into the grape flavoured jam, I could hear it squelching away in the jar. A gift Diluc often gets, from his ‘would-have-been dream workplace’

'That is, until I went and fucked it up for him.
Now he just stays home.’

“Kaeya, take your time.” He said. His voice was calm, but his eyes, I could feel them. Always watching. “There’s no rush.”

I managed to get through breakfast without collapsing into chaos. A small miracle. At least for me. 

I sighed, heading to the sink to wash my hands once more.

“How long do I have?”

Father sighed. “I’ll drive you to your meeting .”

The car smelled faintly pine-scented air freshener, the kind that came in a little green tree and tried its hardest to give off a fresh scent but just ended up smelling of faded cheap bleach after a  few days. I could still taste the burnt edge of my toast, still hear the clatter of cutlery from breakfast rattling somewhere in the back of my mind. I’d eaten. That was supposed to be enough. Supposed to count as ‘starting the day right’ as father liked to call it.

‘My stomach still felt empty though

Like an endless pit of tense dread.’

It reminded me of early mornings when things were quieter, slower…

‘Before light started to hurt…’

I tilted my head back against the seat as I felt the car rumble to life. The morning light stung through the windshield even behind my sunglasses. 

‘See dad? My eyes are protesting. I’m not making it up!’

I sighed and pulled the frames up slightly, pressing my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose. 

‘At least the sun makes my seat warm.

Rather have working eyes though.’

I always rode in the front passenger seat… not like I could make much use of the views these days now, just pale blurs and shifting light through my sunglasses. It was enough. Shapes and warmth and sound, that was what most days looked like now.

I tried to relax as the quiet hum of the car filled the space between us. Leaning my head on the back against the seat, the motion making my vision flicker with static. I shut my eyes briefly until it settled.

Father noticed, of course he did. He always did. The man could read silence like a language.

“You sleep okay?” Crepus’s voice was steady, the same one he used when pretending the answer didn’t matter.

Kaeya let out a noncommittal hum. Something between yeah and leave it. “Define ‘okay.’” 

“Did you at least get some rest?”

“Sure.” I smirked. “You know me. Embodiment of picture perfect health.”

I could hear him tapping something out on the steering wheel as the car paused. We must have reached the third traffic light. “At least you try to get some sleep…who knows where your brother sneaks off to in the night.”

I smiled. “Dad, don’t make it so obvious you have a favourite child.”

He laughed and tussled my hair, before starting the car again. “It’ll be our secret.”

“He’s probably just sneaking off to see his crush.”

“In the middle of the night?” Father spluttered. “Why would-...ah…” He shuddered. “Both of you are growing too fast.”

The car continued to ease onto the road, tires murmuring against the asphalt. I kept my gaze angled toward the window, even if it didn’t do much good. Morning sunlight pressed through the glass in pale sheets, bright enough to sting. I could tell when they passed trees, even with my eyes closed, the pattern of light shifted rhythmically, like the flutter of wings.

‘I could almost picture it. 

Almost.’

“I could drop you off closer to the door?” Father said, voice gentle, like he was testing the waters. “You wouldn’t have to walk the block.”

Kaeya huffed a laugh. “What, and ruin my daily exercise? I need to get my steps in!”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I can manage a block.” I began tracing a finger along the seat seam feeling the stitched ridges. “I’m not made of glass..” I muttered. “If I start getting lost, I’ll shout until someone rescues me.”

“Kaeya.”

“I know.” I paused.  “I know, old man. You worry.”

His voice softened, reluctant. “I do.”

Of course he did. Father had been worrying since the day I came home with bandages around my eyes, since the light started to disappear piece by piece. It wasn’t the smothering kind of worry -  not like Diluc’s, all sharp edges and guilt - but it still lingered, heavy in the air between us.

We fell into silence again. The radio whispered something low and distant, a talk show or maybe a news segment. I didn’t really care, I wasn’t listening. My focus flicked instead to the rhythm of the indicator clicking as we turned: one-two-three, pause, one-two-three. 

‘Rhythm has always been safer than thought.’

“You don’t have to stay the whole time.” Father said after a moment. “If you’re not comfortable, just an hour’s fine. For the first meeting at least.”

“I’ll stay as long as it takes.” I frowned, my tone had come out sharper than I meant, defensive even. I softened it a beat later, forcing a laugh. “You’ll be proud of me, old man. I’ll make a friend. Maybe two.”

Father’s mouth curved in a small smile that I didn’t need to see to feel. “You always were good at that.”

‘Used to be…

Now I’m just lame.’

“Not like I have anywhere better to be.” I swallowed, already regretting what I said.

“Still. Don’t push yourself too hard on the first day.”

I smirked again, folding my arms. “You’re talking to a professional at pushing himself too hard.”

“That’s what worries me.”

‘That word again. ‘Worry.’ Like it was a second skin I couldn’t peel off.’

I just let the silence hang between us. Outside, the city rolled past in indistinct shapes. I could make out movement, blurred outlines, maybe trees… but details were gone, melted into one dull haze of gold and grey. The world felt like an overexposed photograph someone had left in the sun too long.

The car slowed to a stop, the hum of the engine dimming as father parked near the community centre. I could make out movement through the window, flickers of people, maybe trees or signs, but the details were lost. My stomach twisted faintly. I hadn’t realised how tightly my hands were clasped together until I forced them to loosen.

“Alright.” father said, turning off the ignition. “You remember where to go?”

“Left, then up the ramp.” I managed a grin. “Don’t worry, I memorised it.”

I reached for the door handle but paused halfway, my hand hovering there. I could feel father looking at me.

I sighed. “Once.”

I felt fathers grin as he held my face in his two hands, each cupping my cheeks, his rough scratchy, sandpaper beard rubbing across my face as he plastered me with kisses. It went on for a few seconds, before he relaxed, just holding my face in his hands.

‘Father’s the only one allowed to touch my face like this.’

“You’ll be fine.” Father said quietly. “Even if it’s uncomfortable. That’s what starting over feels like sometimes.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “That’s a terrible pep talk.”

“Maybe. But true.”

There it was, the steady warmth, the way father always managed to sound patient even when he was terrified inside. I wanted to say something more, maybe a thank you, maybe nothing at all. But the words tangled somewhere behind my teeth. Instead, I nodded and pushed the door open. The sunlight hit me like a slap, the sharp chill of morning air brushing against my skin. 

‘Okay fine. Father making me wear a thicker jacket was the right choice.

Won’t admit it though.’

Sunlight bit through the gap instantly, too bright. I adjusted my sunglasses, wincing slightly.

“I’ll see you in an hour.” Father called after me.

‘Won’t be seeing you back though, will I pop’s?’

I lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “Try not to miss me too much. You still have your least favourite child at home.”

The car door closed, and the engine faded into the distance. I stood there for a long moment, making sure to keep my expression neutral until I was sure the car was away, breathing in the faint smell of exhaust and cold air. Only then did I let my mask slip a little, my jaw tightening, my shoulders drawing in. I could hear people nearby, laughter, a door creaking open, someone’s phone chiming. Every sound was sharper when he couldn’t anchor it visually. I hesitated, shifting the strap of my cane across my hand as it flipped open, fingers brushing the textured seam for reassurance.

‘Just walk in. Sit down. Pretend you belong.

Just act.

You’re good at that.’

The thought pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat.

The taste of bitterness lingered at the back of my tongue, stronger than the coffee I’d had earlier. I straightened, squared my shoulders, and started walking.

The building smells like disinfectant and burnt coffee. Not the worst combination I’ve ever walked into, but it isn’t exactly welcoming either. The walls hum faintly under the fluorescent lights, that constant, low static that burrows into your skull until you start wondering if it’s actually there or if you’re just imagining it.

I follow the wall with my fingertips as I make my way down the corridor. 

‘Just casual, of course. 

Not because I need it. 

Just... making sure I don’t walk into a potted plant. 

Again.’

I follow the smell of old carpet, and hear the scrape of chairs, shuffling feet. 

‘Just don’t bump into anyone. Don’t make a scene. Don’t fuck it up before it even starts.’

There’s a soft chorus of voices somewhere up ahead, laughter, someone’s over-enthusiastic “hello!” echoing through the hall. 

‘Yeah. This is the place.

Hell is empty

And all the devils are here.’

The door has something taped to it, a paper sign by the feel of it. I can see the faint shapes of letters but not enough to make them out. Doesn’t matter. If I’m wrong, I’ll just embarrass myself in front of strangers instead of people I know. 

‘Improvement, right?’

I push the door open, and immediately I’m hit by the smell of coffee and stale biscuits. There’s too much light pouring through the window, sharp enough that my eyes sting even through the sunglasses.

 ‘Great start.’

“Hi there!” A woman greets, all sunshine and honey. Her voice lands somewhere between kindergarten teacher and motivational speaker. “You must be Kaeya? You can take any seat you’d like!”

‘I just came here to check the time, I’ll be on my way now.’

“Sure.” I say, because that’s what polite people say.

The room goes a little too quiet after that. I can feel eyes on me, people pretending not to look, doing that curious half-glance like I’m some kind of rare exhibit. Fantastic.

I find a chair, second from the wall, and lower myself into it like it’s a trap. The plastic creaks in complaint. I fold my cane beside me, resting it neatly against the chair leg. 

‘Out of sight, out of mind.

Don’t judge me on the irony of it all.’

The leader - same woman - starts talking again. “Alright, everyone, let’s begin. For anyone new, we like to start by sharing how our week has been. You don’t have to, of course. No pressure.”

‘No fucking pressure. But I’ll absolutely make you do it!

What a sick bastard.’

I nod automatically, even though she can’t see it. My hands are on my knees, thumb tracing circles against the fabric of my jeans. I kinda hate these ones now, the imprint of today already making the jeans feel gross.

One by one, the others start sharing. I become vividly aware that the panting isn’t someone in the room but that someone here has a dog. 

‘Must be where that strong smell is coming from.

Ugh.’

Someone talks about trying a new bus route. Another complains about an unhelpful app update. There’s laughter, murmured understanding, a few claps.  Every story seemed to underline the same thing, these people sounded… adjusted. Comfortable. They weren’t flinching when they said blind. They said it like it was a fact, not a wound.

I envied that. I hated that I envied that.

Being around this kind of group warmth that feels... 

‘Sticky. Too sincere.

Blind or not, I know what fake looks like.’

I try to listen. Really, I do. But all I can think about is how comfortable they sound. Like they’ve accepted it  - blindness, disability, whatever fucking label fits best - and moved on. They talk like it’s just another piece of the puzzle, not the missing one.

‘I wish I could do that. 

I can’t.’

Then the leader speaks again. “I want to remind everyone - blindness isn’t a handicap. It’s just another way of experiencing the world.”

My teeth grind together.

‘Oh, sure. And falling down the stairs is just another way to test gravity.’

I shift in my seat, crossing my arms. She keeps talking, that soft, unshakable tone people use when they really believe what bullshit they’re saying. “I know it can be hard at first-” she continues. “-But trust me, you’ll start seeing how it’s a gift.”

‘A gift.’

I nearly laugh out loud. 

‘Yeah, happy birthday to me, here’s lifelong light sensitivity and a blurry view of existence.
Don’t fucking spend it all at once.’

I glance toward the general direction of her voice. “Easy for you to say…” I mutter under my breath.

“I myself was born blind.” She says.

And there it is. The invisible hammer.

Born blind. Of fucking course. She’s never known what it’s like to lose sight. To wake up and realize the world you used to see is turning to fog. She didn’t spend years pretending everything was fine and dandy while watching color drain out of everything and everyone she loved.

My throat feels tight. I hate that. I hate how small it makes me feel.

Suddenly the air feels too thick. Too bright. I can’t breathe properly in this room.

“We’ll take a quick refresher break now, feel free to browse the snacks, toilets are just down the hall. Everyone regroup in ten minutes.”

I stand up, quietly, I think. The chair still squeaks like it’s tattling on me.

‘Piss off chair ‘o’ doom.’

Someone murmurs something kind, but I don’t stay long enough to catch it.

The hallway outside feels mercifully empty. Cooler. Quieter. I let my shoulder hit the wall, breathing out slowly until my pulse stops hammering in my throat. I had gotten good at that. Burying irritation down.

It’s stupid. It’s not like they said anything wrong. They’re just... used to this life. 

‘Maybe I could be, too, if I stopped fighting it.’

But the thought makes me feel sick.

I start walking, cane tapping softly against the floor, the same rhythm as my heartbeat. I don’t know where I’m going, but anywhere is better than standing still. I pause at a window.

The fresh air hits like a slap.

‘Good slap, though, the kind that says you’re still alive, idiot.’

I know I’m at the main corridor, but I refuse to backtrack, so instead turn into another part of the huge building. Taking care of my pace and ignoring to pretend to know where I’m going.

The air shifts, faint, dusty, familiar. The smell of paper and wood polish. The library.

My steps slow.

Figures I’d end up here. It’s either that or stand outside pretending I know where I’m going until I walk into traffic.

It’s quiet inside, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket instead of pressing on your chest. No pep talks. No pity. Just the soft rustle of pages and the low hum of old lights.

For once, the world doesn’t feel like it’s slipping away.

I could feel the stares before I even reached the door. People chatting, moving. I wasn’t used to the sound of people’s footsteps without faces attached. I caught snippets of conversation, laughter, doors opening and closing.

Fine. If I can find a seat, I can pretend I’m normal for at least five minutes.

Eventually I walk into the nearest table, and touch the smooth, cool wood under my fingertips. I sit, exhale, and let the silence fill me up. I feel an empty seat and just anchor myself down quickly. Chair scraping softly against the polished floor. 

The seat cushion is worn out, I could feel a tear in the fabric with the edge of my finger tips, there’s a rough spring inside, the metal is freezing cold and if I lean too much on my back, I feel a creak before it sounds.

‘Despite that, it’s the best fucking chair in my life.’

Inside, the silence is the good kind, heavy but comfortable. No forced smiles. No “you’re so brave.” Just the soft thud of pages turning somewhere in the distance and that faint hum from old overhead lights.

My hands hovered over the table, tracing its edges carefully. I let my fingers linger on the table, the faint ridges where boards met. I tried to slow my breathing. Almost safe. Almost in control. Almost like the world can wait a little while. I touch across the table, hoping not to touch the underside and accidentally brush against a stranger's gum.

‘Yeah, that’s totally happened more than once. Even when I could see.

Gum is disgusting.’

The wood under my fingers is smooth, polished. There’s a faint ridge where someone’s carved initials into the corner -  romantic vandalism at its most mediocre. I trace it with my thumb, letting the texture anchor me. I used to do the same shit with my compass in mathematics class as a kid. Mostly just adding ‘tick if you're bored’. Romance was never my game.

My phone rested in my lap, headphones wound around my fingers. Just scrolling. Totally normal. The screen never changed. A prop. A shield.

This is fine. This is better.
No one’s talking to me. No one’s telling me to find peace or acceptance or whatever poetic bullshit they’re selling this week.

Just me and the smell of books.

And yeah, okay, I can’t read any of them. Not the normal ones, anyway. The last time I tried, I gave myself a migraine trying to tell if a blob was an ‘O’ or a ‘D.’

‘Spoiler: it was an ‘8’. Go figure.’

Still, being surrounded by words feels comforting. Like proximity counts for something.

I exhale, leaning back. My throat’s tight in that way it gets when you’ve been trying too hard not to feel anything. It’s pathetic, really. Getting emotional in a library.

But that’s the thing about silence -  it leaves you alone with your thoughts, and mine are assholes.

‘ "You could’ve stayed." One of them whispers.

Yeah, sure. And then what? Cry about how ‘inspiring’ blindness can be? No thanks.’

The quiet stretches. Peaceful. Almost.

There’s a sound then, the soft click of shoes against the floor. Slow, deliberate. I glance up, squinting toward the direction of the sound. A shape, short, steady, probably carrying something under one arm. The steps pause.

‘Oh, great. Someone’s about to tell me I’m sitting in their favorite spot or something. Just my luck.’

They don’t speak right away. I can feel their eyes on me, though. Not the curious, pitying kind I get from strangers, but something quieter. Measured.

I look down at the table, pretending to focus on absolutely nothing. My mouth twitches.

If this brat tells me I’m in their seat, I swear to fuck, I’m not moving.

Let them deal with it.

I heard the soft echo of someone’s steps, cautious. My grip on my phone tightened slightly.

 ‘Great. I’m about to be That Guy. Sitting in someone else’s seat while they glare at me.’

The stranger paused, evaluating me in silence. I pretended to scroll, though the screen hadn’t changed once. My mind raced. Should I say something? Should I move? I didn’t.

‘C’mon fucker - move! You don’t own the whole library. Find another seat!’

The footsteps drew closer. The stranger hovering over my table, and I- completely unaware -  am about to meet someone who will quietly shift the balance of my world.

‘I just had to wait.’

I don’t have to wait long.

A voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and careful, like someone testing the weight of their words before letting them go.

“Excuse me.”

I flinch, barely, but still. Damn it.

The voice is soft but oddly precise. Not timid, just… gentle in that way people get when they don’t want to disturb something fragile.

“You’re in my seat.”

And there it is.

‘So what fucktart? Head off somewhere else.’

I bite back a sigh, drumming my fingers on the table instead.

“Really?” I drawl, turning my head just enough to aim a vague smile in his direction.

‘Sounded like a guy anyway. Like a kinda timid, sleepy tone.’

“Didn’t realize the library had assigned seating now. Should I ask the librarian for the seating plan?”

There’s a pause, too long to be casual. I can almost hear him blinking.

“No. I just… usually sit here.”

There’s something awkwardly earnest in the way he says it. Like it’s a confession, not a complaint.

I hum, pretending to think it over.
“Right. Well, I’m already sitting, so-” I gesture vaguely, “-maybe try another chair. There’s a whole ocean of empty tables.”

Another pause. And for some reason, it stretches.

Then, softly…

“Very well. I can adapt.”

‘Gotta say, I had worked myself up for a backtalk showdown. Won’t lie and say I wasn’t disappointed this stranger complied so easily.’

The voice moves - footsteps, the quiet scuff of a chair being pulled out across from me. Not beside me. Across.

So he’s staying. Bold.

I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my mouth. “Guess I’m the company you didn’t ask for.”

“It’s all right.” He says simply.

And then… nothing. No lecture. No sigh. Just silence again. The right kind of silence, the kind that doesn’t feel like judgment.

I shift, fingers brushing the edge of my phone where it sits on the table. It’s a small comfort, even if the screen’s just a useless slab of glowing light these days. I can feel his gaze flick toward it once, maybe twice, but he doesn’t comment.

Smart guy. Knows when to keep his mouth shut.

He doesn’t fill the space with noise, doesn’t fidget or overcompensate. Just sits there, steady, still, like someone who’s actually comfortable in silence. I don’t know whether to be impressed or irritated.

After a moment, I sigh and sit back. Still pretending to scroll on my phone. I grab some wired headphones just to get rid of the feeling of his gaze. I just let the wire poke out of my pocket, it’s not like I planned to plug it in or anything. I doubt the guy would look close enough to interrogate me anyway.

Then silence again.

But this time, it doesn’t feel suffocating.

It’s weirdly… peaceful. Like he’s the kind of person who doesn’t take up space he doesn’t need to.

Still, my stomach knots. 

‘That restless twist that says don’t get comfortable. I shouldn’t.

He’ll notice. People always do.’

But for now, he doesn’t say anything.

And I don’t move.

So we sit there, two strangers sharing the same silence for completely different reasons, me, because I’m hiding.

And him, because maybe he’s not afraid of it.

I wonder how long the peace will last.

Chapter Text

The library is, in principle, a sanctuary of order. The one place where the world feels correctly arranged.
Noise is subdued, movement is predictable, and people generally understand that this is not a playground.

Which is why it feels vaguely criminal that someone is sitting at my table.

‘My table.’

It’s not legally mine, of course. But ownership, I’ve learned, is mostly about consistency. I sit there every morning at ten-thirty sharp, with the same notebook, the same pencil case, and the same mental preparedness for productivity that never quite materializes until eleven. Predictability creates space for focus. Chaos makes thought clumsy.

Today, however, there’s a stranger in my seat, sprawled upright, shoulders tense, one hand braced on the edge of the table like he’s about to arm wrestle gravity.

I pause, because I’m civilized. There are social rules about confronting seat usurpers. Still, there’s a certain principle at stake. 

I stop short, adjusting the strap of my bag. 

‘It’s absurd how much a change that small can throw me off. One person. One seat.’

The pattern I’ve come to rely on has been broken.

“Excuse me.” I say, as politely as possible. The stranger still flinches anyway. “You’re in my seat.”

“Really…” The man turns toward me, head angled just slightly off-center, his lips curling into something halfway between amusement and challenge.
“Didn’t realise the library had assigned seating now. Should I ask the librarian for the seating plan?”

I pause. 

‘Why was this stranger being so persistent?’

“No.” I reply. “I just… usually sit here.”

He smirks. “Then maybe you should’ve come earlier.”

I stare. He stares - well, faces me - and there’s a brief standoff, the kind of social deadlock where neither party wants to look like they care too much about the outcome.

“Right well… Well, I’m already sitting, so-” He gestured vaguely, in a weird direction. “-maybe try another chair. There’s a whole ocean of empty tables.”

“...Very well.” I sigh, sitting opposite him. “I can adapt.”

‘Internally, I cannot. But I will pretend.’

He’s… interesting, in a way that makes observation feel like research rather than curiosity,  in the same way a poorly labeled chemical sample is interesting: potentially dangerous, possibly volatile and… and…

‘...and definitely worth looking at.’

The stranger’s fingers are restless, always in motion, his hand keeps tracing the same arc across his phone screen. No scrolling. No swiping between apps. Just… motion, as if he’s looping muscle memory to appear occupied. My early conclusion was that he was using one of those brainrot apps, like the social clock app where users just scroll endlessly through a marathon of videos of people pointing at words, selling random bulk stock in the hopes of a commission, or dancing ridiculously in the hopes of gaining ‘hearts’ for their self-validation.

However, even scrolling though that endless Everest of mindless nonsense, a person would normally, naturally even, pause on a video once in a while, or tap the screen to save the content for later. This stranger did nothing of the sort.

I give him a closer look, there’s a pair of wired earphones in his ears, trailing down - unplugged. The end of the cable hangs loose against his pocket.

‘Fascinating.’

At one point, he adjusts his posture, leans slightly toward the table, then goes still again. It’s subtle, but there’s a faint hesitation between movement and intent - the kind that comes when your eyes aren’t doing the work.

I glance down at my notebook, pretending to take notes, and allow my thoughts to arrange themselves. The anchoring hand, the faint delay before reacting to sound, the unconnected wire…

He’s not scrolling.
He’s not watching anything.
He turned toward my voice, not my approach.

‘Ah.

Blind.’

Or close enough to it that pretending otherwise requires constant maintenance. Almost like a second nature.

I feel a small surge of reluctant admiration.

‘Pretending is exhausting.’

I know this from personal experience - though my form of pretending is usually ‘pretending to enjoy social interaction.’

His movements are careful but too careful, small calibrations that betray practiced compensation. He orients himself by sound and memory, not sight.

I don’t say anything. To acknowledge it would shift the balance between us, and I have no desire to play savior or intruder. Instead, I let the silence hold.

I keep my observations to myself. There’s no tactful way to say, ‘I’ve deduced your disability through forensic analysis of your phone habits.’

Instead, I open my notebook, flip to a blank page, and begin making meaningless marks. The illusion of productivity comforts people.

The library air hums faintly with the soft, rhythmic noises that make it feel alive, the hiss of air vents, the shuffle of pages, the subtle creak of furniture. Far away, a printer whirs and spits out paper like a sigh.

He sits still across from me, unmoving except for the occasional tilt of his head when someone passes. The sound of his breathing is uneven, not in a natural rhythm like most people, but instead a sharper, almost anxious bursts of breath.

Time passes slowly, measured by those small movements. Ten minutes. Twenty. I estimate forty minutes, perhaps less since it all began. It’s difficult to tell without glancing at the clock, and glancing would be conspicuous.

Sunlight has crept further across the floor tiles, a pale gold stripe cutting between us. It hits his hair - a deep, inky color that catches faint blue when the light shifts, it’s dark, with a purplish sheen in the light, catching the kind of reflection that would look almost metallic on paper. I should  be able to sketch it easily, I think. The way light bends around imperfection.

But I don’t draw. I just watch the dust drifting through the beam, slow and weightless.

He sighs softly, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his phone. It’s the sound of someone pretending not to care that they’re uncomfortable.

‘I recognize it too well.’

The stranger reaches for his phone again, fingertips hovering as though trying to remember where everything is. When he unlocks it, I can hear the faint synthetic voice of a screen reader, quick and precise. He swipes again, faster this time, then locks the phone and sets it down.

He sighs quietly. 

‘It’s the kind of sound people make when they’re pretending they’re fine.’

At some point, I realize I’ve stopped writing entirely. I’m listening instead - to the faint scrape of his sleeve on the table, the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the almost imperceptible hum of his phone’s vibration motor when he unlocks it for the fifth time without changing the screen.

‘I wonder, vaguely, if he knows how loud silence can be

 when you’re both trying not to disturb it.’

I look at my book and I correct the impulse, stare down at the half-filled page, and force myself to write something - anything - to make my presence less conspicuous.

The pencil moves, but the writing never forms.

It’s strange how his silence alters the entire room. When he breathes, I feel it, the slow inhale, the restrained exhale, as if he’s trying not to take up space. I realize I’m doing the same, adjusting my posture so the sound of my pen isn’t too sharp.

‘We are two people pretending not to notice each other. 

It’s almost… symmetrical.’

It occurs to me, while sitting there like an idiot in my chair, that there must be a reason this man chose my seat.

People don’t just pick that table. It’s too exposed. Too central. The sunlight shifts directly onto it by eleven, and the glare alone makes the surface almost unusable for sketching or writing. It’s a terrible spot for studying - unless you’re some kind of exhibitionist.

‘So why?’

Possible Theory #1: He didn’t feel the glare yet.
Possible Theory #2: He’s some sort of rebel who thrives on optical discomfort.
Possible Theory #3: He’s here to test me. Unlikely. The world is not generally that coordinated.

…Though, in fairness, the universe has an oddly consistent sense of humor.

I eye him again. He’s not reading. Not writing. He’s just sitting there like someone who owns the place. The audacity.

Maybe he’s one of those people who believe in ‘manifesting confidence.’
Or maybe it’s the opposite, someone who’s just pretending to belong until no one questions it. A social camouflage tactic.

‘I can respect that. In principle.’

Still, the possibilities keep multiplying:

Possible Theory #4: He’s secretly a researcher studying human territory, and I’ve just walked into his experiment.
Possible Theory #5: He’s a spy waiting for someone who chose the worst possible meeting spot in all of Mondstadt.
Possible Theory #6: He’s lost, prideful, and too stubborn to ask for help.

That last one feels… oddly specific.

I frown.

The problem with theorizing about strangers is that, inevitably, the hypotheses start sounding like autobiographies.

Then the silence fractures. My daydream and theories are over.

The phone on the table buzzes violently, vibrating on the table, rattling the surface and startling both of us. He curses under his breath, the word a sharp whisper, “Shit”, before fumbling to still the noise.

“Guess that’s my cue.” He mutters, slipping the phone into his pocket. The motion is smooth but cautious, his other hand brushing the edge of the table to orient himself. Then he reaches down and unfolds a slim white cane from beside his chair. The soft click of metal segments locking together echoes faintly. The segments click together - a soft, satisfying rhythm that punctures the quiet.

“Goodbye.” I say, because that seems like the correct social gesture.

He flinches and freezes, almost like he forgot I was here. He nods once and leaves without another word.

The absence he leaves behind feels… oddly significant. The air shifts back to its normal equilibrium, but the space across from me still feels occupied. It’s strangely heavy now that he’s gone.

Through the large windows on the other side of the library, I see him walking outside and pause to sit down on the bench outside, cane propped against his knee. The daylight is sharper now, cutting across the pavement. He sits there a few minutes, tapping his thumb against his phone before a tall man with bright red hair and a scruffy looking beard appears. I can’t get a good look at the redhead's face, the sunbeam glaring right across his face from my point of view. They exchange words, brief, warm, and head toward a nearby parked car.

When the engine hum fades, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

Now that I am once again alone in my rightful domain, I retrieve the slice of cake from my bag. A reward for patience. It’s the cake I had purchased earlier that day, and it’s only then I recognise the stranger for who he was. The man at the coffee shop earlier in this morning, the one who clearly didn’t plan to tip such a large amount for a few cups of coffee and a carton of milk.

I didn’t really pay him much mind. Well I wouldn’t have, but the delay was quite helpful for me to browse the new fresh cake selection.

It’s carrot cake. So it’s healthy.

‘Well, actually, it’s red velvet. But there’s an icing decoration in the buttercream of an orange carrot. Which counts for your five-a-day.

Besides…carrot is the worst flavour for cake.’

I hadn’t touched it earlier, too aware of the stranger’s quiet presence across the table, too uncertain whether eating in front of him would feel rude or ridiculous and partly because the stranger’s presence made me self-conscious, and to a certain degree, because I wasn’t sure of the etiquette.

‘Do you offer half your dessert to a person you’ve just argued with over seating rights?

Exactly.

 Too complicated.’

Now, I eat freely. The frosting is a little melted, but it tastes better when silence feels earned.

I glance at the chair opposite me, and think about the rhythm that had existed between us, the quiet, the breathing, the static tension of unspoken observation, at the faint indentation he left behind, and imagine the stranger’s voice again - sharp, confident, defensive.

I tell myself it’s better this way.

He’s pretending too, I think. Just in a different direction.

When I close my notebook, my eyes drift to the door, unbidden.

For reasons I don’t fully understand, I hope the stranger comes back tomorrow.