You’re delaying the second he sees you and regrets everything.
In the darkness, you hear Mateo move closer.
You flinch, and you hate that you flinch, because you’ve been trained by years of other people’s reactions.
He touches your chin with the pads of his fingers and lifts it gently, like he’s asking permission.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
Your stomach tightens.
He shouldn’t say that.
Not if he’s blind.
“I’m not blind,” he whispers, and the words make the room tilt.
Your breath catches.
Your hands fly to your veil, gripping it like it’s a shield.
“Then… why?” you manage, voice shaking. “Why the cane? Why the glasses? Why… me?”
He exhales, close enough that you feel the warmth of it.
“Because I wanted them to stop looking at you,” he says, voice rough with emotion.
“So you could breathe.”
Then he turns on the lamp.
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