Yes, I live here.
No, my eyes aren’t fake.
Yes, I was born this way.
No, I don’t wear colored contacts.
And always the same: “Wow, your eyes are—”
Cool.
Crazy.
Freaky.
Strange.
Beautiful.
Then there’s my favorite: “You must get so much attention.”
Yeah.Sooo much attention. I’d trade every bit of it for five quiet minutes without someone asking if I wear colored contacts.
The backyard is shadowed, stretched under a heavy navy sky littered with soft stars. There’s a line of string lights along the edge of the deck, and the bulbs hum faintly, glowing gold above me. The chill nips at my skin, but I welcome it.
I need this. Space. Stillness. Time to unmask and recalibrate. I’ve been performing for too long tonight—hell, for the past two months. Every day here is some variation of ‘Just Be Normal, Noah.’
I roll my shoulders and rub at the back of my neck, letting myself simply exist without the pressure of holding eye contact or modulating my tone or calculating how many more seconds I can stay in a conversation without visibly unraveling. Out here, no one’s watching. No one’s asking about my eyes or why I’m so quiet. No one’s waiting for me to be more than I am.
I close my eyes and let my breath slow.
Then I hear the door slide open behind me.
I don’t turn, but I tense, shoulders pulling tighter, praying it’s not Damien. If it’s him, I’ll break in ways I’m not ready to explain. But the footsteps are too light, too fluid, and when the voice follows, it’s unmistakably someone else.
“Jesus. It’s like being inside a blender full of overconfident testosterone and cheap cologne.”
I glance sideways to see Sage stepping onto the deck with his arms wrapped around himself as he huffs into the chill. He’s now wearing an oversized hoodie that swallows him whole, sleeves covering his hands, and his hair’s pulled up into a loose bun that’s starting to slip free.
“I thought you thrived in chaos,” I say.
He snorts. “I do. Doesn’t mean I don’t also hate it.”
I turn back to the railing, and he steps in beside me without asking. But he doesn’t get too close and doesn’t crowd. We both look out at the dark stretch of the yard, the string lights casting faint shadows on the wood.
“Too many people?” he asks after a beat.
“Too many questions,” I say. “Too much eye contact. Too many smells. Too many things I’m supposed to pretend don’t bother me.”
He hums in understanding. “Someone tell you your eyes are cool again?”
I nod, jaw tightening. “So many times tonight.”
“You should start charging for the privilege.”
I huff out something that might be a laugh. “Or wear sunglasses indoors.”
Sage shrugs. “I used to do that. People thought I was stoned all the time. It helped.”
