Shared Spaces, Unspoken Things

CHAPTER 13: THROUGH THESE LENSES, I CHOOSE YOU

It started with the glasses.

Not the moment he saw her walk in, though that had taken the wind out of him. Not the part where his hand went to his chest like his heart needed help understanding it was real. But the smudges.

She noticed them halfway through a conversation—half-hidden beneath the curve of his lashes, distorting the glint in his eyes just slightly. Twice, she looked at them. The third time, she spoke.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, already halfway to his face, "the smudges are bothering me. Can I?"

He tilted his head toward her—easy, automatic, like he'd been waiting to be seen.
"Yeah," he said, soft and steady. "Sure."

She slid the glasses from his face with a kind of reverence she hadn't expected to feel. The weight of them in her hand felt strangely personal. She reached into her bag, found the corner of her scarf, and began to wipe them clean. Slow. Focused. Careful.

Without the glasses, his expression softened—less framed, less hidden. And he just watched her, eyes warm in a way that made her throat tighten a little.

When she handed them back, their fingers brushed—his longer, hers more certain in that moment than she felt. She held his gaze as she slid the glasses back on.

"You see better now?" she asked, teasing, but barely.

He blinked once. Then again. His voice was low when it came.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

***********************************************************

The moment didn't linger as long as she would've liked. It never did.

There was a small commotion outside—not loud, but enough to draw glances. Raised voices. A sharp noise. Concern prickled through her.

She spotted him a few minutes later, standing outside, talking to someone quietly. Calmly. Gently.

No emergency. No danger. Just a flurry of concern, a few rattled nerves, a brief misunderstanding in the parking lot—someone else's moment, but his presence had helped settle it.

Still, her body had reacted before her mind caught up. She'd moved toward him instinctively—without thinking—just to be sure. And he had looked up and smiled at her like he already knew why she was there.

"I'm okay," he said quietly. "Promise."

She hadn't said anything. Just handed him a bottle of water from her bag and stood with him for a moment longer than necessary. Maybe not for him. Maybe for her.

When she made her way back inside, Real Life Eli was standing in the corridor.

He didn't say anything—just looked at her with that sideways grin that said "so we're doing this again, huh?"

She rolled her eyes and walked past him. But the corners of her mouth refused to stay flat.

Her Journal - Late Afternoon

I didn't mean to reach for him like that.

I just saw the smudges and couldn't ignore them. Something in me needed to make it clearer. Needed to help him see.

I don't know if he felt it too, the way time paused when he tilted his head toward me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like trust could exist in moments as small as fingerprints on glass.

There's something strange about cleaning someone's glasses. It's practical, yes. But it's also... tender. Intimate. You're close. You're careful. You're invited to see what they see and help them see better.

And when I slid them back on his face?

He didn't just say he could see.

He looked at me like he already had.

His Journal - Later that night

She took my glasses off like she'd done it a hundred times.

Didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Just... saw something that needed care and offered it.

I didn't even realize I was leaning toward her until I felt her fingers graze my temple. And God, I would've let her take the whole world off my shoulders if she had asked in that moment.

She made a smudge feel sacred.

And when she asked if I could see better, it wasn't about the lenses.

It was about her.

And the answer, every time, is yes.