> "The only thing louder than a scream is the silence of twenty people trying desperately to pretend they aren't staring at you. It sounds like static. It sounds like guilt."
> — Maria's Notes, Entry #42
>
Part 1: The Commute from Hell
Let's get one thing straight immediately: I don't hate being blind. It's fine. It's my normal. It's comfortable, like wearing a sweater that's slightly too big.
What I hate is you.
Okay, not you specifically. But the collective you. The society you. The "Oh my god, look at that poor girl, she's bumping into the wall, should we call the police or a priest?" you.
I'm standing on the subway, clutching the metal pole. It's 7:45 AM. The train smells like a cocktail of stale coffee, body dampness, and that specific, sour anxiety that radiates off salarymen. I love this smell. It's honest. It tells me exactly where I am.
I'm perfectly balanced. My cane is folded in my hand. I am minding my own business, listening to the audiobook of a trashy romance novel at 3x speed in my right earbud.
Then, I feel it. The Shift.
Someone is approaching. The air pressure changes to my left. I smell citrus deodorant and desperation.
"Excuse me?" a voice says. Male. Young. Probably a university student trying to earn karma points to get into heaven. "Do you... um... do you want my seat?"
I don't react. I can't speak, obviously, but even if I could, I wouldn't. I just want to listen to the Duke confess his love to the scullery maid.
He taps my shoulder. Don't touch me.
"Miss? I see your cane. Please, sit down. It's dangerous."
Dangerous? I'm holding a pole, you turnip. The only thing dangerous here is your breath.
I sigh internally. If I ignore him, he'll make a scene. He'll get louder. He'll alert the herd. Then everyone will look. I can feel eyes like heat lamps. If five people look at me, my skin prickles. If ten look, I start to sweat. Right now, I can feel about six pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head.
I have to perform.
I turn my head slightly in his direction. I put on my "Saintly Suffering Face." I tilt my head, give a fragile, pathetic smile, and shake my head gently. No, thank you, kind sir. I am a martyr for the standing commuters.
"Are you sure?" he insists. "I really don't mind!"
Just die. Please just spontaneously combust.
I reach into my bag, pull out my tablet, and type rapidly. I hold the screen up to his face.
I AM FINE. PLEASE STOP YELLING. YOU ARE SCARING ME.
It's a lie. He's not yelling, and I'm not scared. But playing the victim is the fastest way to make a White Knight shut up.
"Oh! Oh, god, I'm sorry!" he stammers.
The heat of the eyes around us shifts from curiosity to judgment. Now he's the bad guy who scared the poor disabled girl. The herd turns on him. He retreats into the crowd, humiliated.
Victory.
I go back to my audiobook. The Duke is about to kiss the maid. My morning is back on track.
Part 2: The Zoo Exhibit
School is worse than the train. The train is anonymous; school is personal.
I attend a regular high school. My mother fought the board of education for three months to get me in here. She gave speeches about "integration" and "normalization." I think she just wanted to prove that her broken daughter could play with the normal kids.
I walk down the hallway. Tap. Tap. Tap.
My cane hits the linoleum. I know this hallway by heart. Twelve steps, turn right. Twenty steps, locker number 304.
"Morning, Maria-chan!"
"Hi Maria! You look cute today!"
"Need help with your shoes, Maria?"
It's a barrage of toxic positivity. They talk to me in that high-pitched voice people use for golden retrievers or babies. Who's a good girl? Who walked to school all by herself?
I nod. I bow. I smile. My face muscles ache from the constant, fake smiling. If I don't smile, they ask if I'm depressed.
No, Karen, I'm not depressed. I just have resting blind face.
I reach my shoe locker. I switch my outdoor loafers for my uwabaki slippers. I do this by touch. It takes me exactly four seconds.
Suddenly, a hand grabs my wrist.
I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs. I hate being grabbed. It's the one thing that genuinely terrifies me because I can't see the threat.
"Let me get that for you," a voice says.
It's Sato. The Class Rep. The bane of my existence. She smells like sterile wet wipes and moral superiority.
She yanks the slipper out of my hand. "You were struggling. I saw you fumbling with the heel. Here."
I wasn't struggling. I was checking for chewing gum on the sole.
She forces the slipper onto my foot. She's touching my ankle. Her hands are cold and clammy. I want to kick her. I want to kick her right in the shin. A solid, calculated punt.
Get off me.
I pull my foot back sharply. Sato gasps.
"Maria! I'm just helping!" she says, her voice loud enough for the nearby boys to hear. "You don't have to be so stubborn."
I can feel the audience gathering. Here we go. The daily drama.
I open my mouth, but only a dry rasp comes out. I hate my voice box. It's a useless lump of meat. I reach for my tablet, but Sato is standing too close, blocking my movement.
"Hey."
A new voice cuts through the noise. It's raspy, low, and sounds like the person has been gargling gravel and cigarette smoke.
"Let go of her foot, you creep. You got a foot fetish or something?"
Silence. Absolute, beautiful silence.
Sato sputters. "E-Excuse me? I am helping her! She's disabled!"
"She's putting on a shoe, not defusing a bomb. Back off."
The grip on my ankle vanishes. Sato stomps away, muttering about ungrateful people.
I stand there, one shoe on, one shoe off. I don't know this new voice. It doesn't sound like anyone in my class. The person smells like... strawberries? And something burnt? Like strawberry jam on burnt toast.
"Yo," the voice says. "You gonna put the other shoe on, or are we waiting for a written invitation?"
I blink behind my dark glasses. I quickly jam my left foot into the other slipper.
"Nice," the voice says. "I'm Yu-ri. I sit behind you starting today. I got held back a year because I punched a vice-principal. Nice to meet ya."
I pause. Punched a vice-principal?
I grab my tablet and type: THANK YOU.
"Don't thank me," Yu-ri says. I can hear the grin in her voice. "I just wanted that Sato girl to shut up. Her voice sounds like a fork scratching a plate. Anyway, move it. You're blocking the traffic."
She walks past me. She doesn't offer an arm. She doesn't guide me. She just walks.
I like her immediately.
Part 3: The Untouchable Girl
Classroom 2-B.
I sit in the second row, third seat from the window. The window is useless to me visually, but I like the draft. It keeps me awake during Math.
Math is hell. The teacher, Mr. Takeda, tries his best, but he relies on the chalkboard. He writes equations and says, "As you can see here..."
No, Takeda-sensei. I cannot see here. I cannot see anywhere.
He usually remembers halfway through, panics, and starts describing the equation in excruciating, stuttering detail just for me, which slows down the whole class and makes everyone hate me.
Today is different. Yu-ri is behind me.
I can hear her. She's not taking notes. She's eating something. Crunchy. Chips? No, harder. Rice crackers. She's eating rice crackers in the middle of calculus. The sheer audacity.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
It's rhythmic. It's grounding.
Mr. Takeda clears his throat. "Yu-ri-san? Perhaps you could... stop eating?"
"I'm hungry," Yu-ri replies. "Brain needs fuel. You want one?"
The class giggles. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling.
"Just... put it away," Takeda sighs. He's too scared to argue with the girl who punched an admin.
Lunchtime rolls around. This is the danger zone. Usually, I go to the library to eat alone. It's quiet, and librarians respect the code of silence. But today, before I can stand up, a desk is dragged next to mine with a screech of metal on metal that makes my teeth hurt.
"We eating here?" Yu-ri asks.
It's not a question. It's a statement.
I hesitate. I usually leave. Eating in class means risking the Sato Squad.
"I brought octopus sausages," Yu-ri announces. "But I burned them. They look like little charcoal briquettes. You want one?"
I turn toward her voice. I take out my tablet.
I CAN'T SEE THEM, SO THE CHARCOAL ASPECT DOESN'T BOTHER ME. HOW DO THEY TASTE?
Yu-ri laughs. It's a loud, barking laugh. Unladylike. "Like cancer and pork. Here."
She doesn't wait. She pokes something against my hand. I take it. It's a sausage. I pop it in my mouth.
It's awful. Bitter, dry, and salty.
I chew slowly. I swallow.
POISONOUS, I type.
"Right?" She sounds delighted. "My cooking is a weapon. So, what's the deal? You born like this, or was it a tragic accident involving a radioactive spider?"
The room goes dead silent. You could hear a pin drop.
People don't ask that. Never. It's the taboo. You don't ask the blind girl about her blindness. You just pretend she's a mystical fairy who fell from the sky.
I feel the tension in the room. Everyone is waiting for me to cry. To run away. To be offended.
I feel a bubble of laughter rising in my chest. Finally. A real question.
I type: BORN LIKE THIS. FACTORY DEFECT. NO REFUNDS.
Yu-ri reads it out loud. "Factory defect. nice. I'm a factory defect too, but mostly in the brain department."
"Yu-ri-san!"
Sato has appeared. The fun police have arrived.
"You can't ask things like that!" Sato shrieks. "It's insensitive! Maria-san is sensitive about her condition!"
Am I? I didn't get the memo.
"She looks fine to me," Yu-ri says, mouth full of rice. "She's eating the burnt sausage. She's tough."
"Maria, are you okay?" Sato puts a hand on my shoulder again. "Did she bully you?"
I am so tired. I am so unbelievably tired of being the prop in Sato's play of morality.
I want to scream. I want to stand up and flip the desk. But I can't. If I get angry, I'm the "hysterical disabled girl." If I cry, I'm the "tragic disabled girl." I have no room to be just a pissed-off teenager.
Suddenly, Yu-ri stands up.
"Hey, Pres," Yu-ri says. Her voice drops an octave. It's cold now. "Take your hand off her."
"I'm comforting her!"
"You're petting her," Yu-ri snaps. "She's not a golden retriever. She's a person. And she's eating lunch. You're ruining the appetite. And considering she's eating literal charcoal, that's saying something."
Sato freezes. "I... I was just..."
"Scram," Yu-ri says.
Sato scrambles away.
I sit there, stunned. No one has ever defended me like that. Usually, people defend me from bullies, but they do it with pity. Yu-ri defended me from the pity itself.
"Man, that girl is annoying," Yu-ri says, sitting back down. "Hey, you got any good food? Trade you a burnt sausage for an egg roll."
I open my bento box. My mother makes immaculate bentos. Perfectly seasoned tamagoyaki.
I push the box toward Yu-ri.
TAKE THE EGG. I HATE EGG.
"Deal."
We eat in silence for a while. It's not an awkward silence. It's just... quiet.
"Hey," Yu-ri says after a while.
I turn to her.
"Is it dark?" she asks. "Like, do you see black? or just nothing?"
I pause. No one asks for the specifics.
NOT BLACK, I type. IT'S LIKE TRYING TO SEE OUT OF YOUR ELBOW. YOU DON'T SEE BLACK OUT OF YOUR ELBOW. YOU JUST DON'T SEE.
"Whoa," Yu-ri whispers. "Deep. Seeing out of my elbow. I'm gonna try that."
I hear her straining, presumably trying to look through her arm.
"Nope. Can't do it."
I smile. A real smile. Not the plastic one I give to teachers. A small, genuine quirk of the lips.
YOU ARE WEIRD, I type.
"Yeah," Yu-ri agrees. "But you're eating lunch with me, so you're weird too."
Part 4: The Walk Home
The bell rings. Freedom.
I pack my bag. My cane extends with a satisfying shink sound.
"Going home?" Yu-ri asks.
I nod.
"Cool. I'm walking that way. I need to buy manga."
We walk out of the school gates. The air has warmed up. The afternoon sun feels heavy on my skin.
"So," Yu-ri says. "Can you do any cool tricks?"
TRICKS?
"Yeah. Like Daredevil. If I throw a rock, can you catch it?"
NO. I WOULD GET HIT IN THE FACE.
"Lame," she says. "What about echolocation? Can you screech and see walls?"
I AM NOT A BAT.
"Disappointing. Seriously, what are the perks? There's gotta be perks."
I stop walking. I think about it.
The perks.
I listen. I hear the wind rustling the leaves of the cherry trees three blocks away. I hear a cat walking on a fence to my right—light, velvet footsteps. I hear the heartbeat of the girl standing next to me. It's steady. Calm. Honest.
I type.
I CAN HEAR WHEN PEOPLE ARE LYING. THEIR VOICE TIGHTENS.
"Oh?" Yu-ri stops. "That's useful. Am I lying right now?"
I listen to her breathing.
NO.
"Good," she says. "Because I think we're gonna be friends. And I'd hate to lie to a friend."
I freeze. Friends?
We met six hours ago. She insulted the class rep, fed me burnt food, and asked if I was a bat.
"Don't leave me hanging," Yu-ri says. "I'm extending a metaphorical hand here. Or a fist bump. Whichever is easier for you to find."
I reach out. My hand bumps into her knuckles. It's clumsy, but it connects.
A fist bump.
"Booyah," she whispers.
We keep walking.
"By the way," Yu-ri says casually. "Is Maria happy?"
I stop dead in my tracks.
The question. The dreaded question. The one everyone asks with that heavy, suffocating pity. Is Maria happy?
But Yu-ri says it like she's asking Is Maria hungry? or Is Maria cold? It's just data. She's just checking the specs.
I stand there on the sidewalk. The world flows around me. Cars, bikes, wind.
I check myself.
My feet hurt a little from the shoes.
My stomach is full of burnt sausage and egg.
My hand still tingles from the fist bump.
My mind is quiet. No screaming.
I take out my tablet. I type one word.
YES.
Yu-ri laughs. "Cool. Let's go get ice cream. You're paying, since I saved your life from the Evil Class Rep."
I HATE YOU, I type, but I'm walking toward the ice cream shop.
I KNOW, she replies.
And for the first time in my life, the noise of the world doesn't bother me at all.
> End of Chapter 1