“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
You meet his gaze in the bedroom mirror.
“So are you.”
He smiles faintly. “I’m thinking about the girl in the hallway with the workbook.”
You hold his eyes.
“She survived,” you say.
He shakes his head once, gentle and certain.
“No. She did more than that. You did.”
For a long moment neither of you moves.
Then you reach behind, lace your fingers through his, and let the mirror keep its witness.
Because this is the truth at last:
He was wrong to hide his sight.
You were right to leave.
He was brave to tell the rest.
You were braver to demand all of it.
And love, real love, turned out not to be the miracle of being unseen.
It was being seen completely, after all the damage, and choosing not to turn away.
THE END
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