“Oh god,” I whisper. “I have a date.”
Jason barks once.
“I suppose I better get ready.”
I shower, more out of nerves than necessity, letting the hot water and scented steam soothe me. My body knows this routine better than my mind does, and for a few minutes, I almost feel like the version of me “before”.
When I step out, I set up my makeup on the bathroom counter for later, fingers brushing over each container in the order I always use.
I used to do my makeup in the car on the way to work during traffic jams, red lights, fifteen-minute commutes that somehow became my private glam station. I never looked at what I was doing back then either; it was all muscle memory, feeling the shape of my face under my fingers. Sight was optional.
Sure, things are different now. My eyes are different now. The scars tug, the angles have changed a little, the lids don’t move the same way. But the gist? Yeah. I still have that.
And the volunteers onBe My Eyesalways compliment me.
“Flawless.”
“So even.”
“Your eyeliner is better than mine and I have working eyeballs.”
Their voices make me smile every single time.
I open the app and get connected to a volunteer—a woman with a warm voice who sounds genuinely delighted to help. “What are we choosing tonight?” she asks.
“Something that says casual but not too casual,” I say, already laughing at myself. “Like… I didn’t try, but obviously I did, but you can’t tell I did.”
She snorts. “So… jeans and a nice top?”
“See, you get me.”
We flip through options together—her describing colors and textures, me running my fingers over fabric. Eventually, we land on soft denim and a top that feels elegant without screaming date night.
Perfect. Or as perfect as I can manage with butterflies cannibalizing each other in my stomach.
I lay the outfit on the bed, press my palm to the fabric, and inhale.
I want to look casual, but I feel anything but. I slip on my robe while I cook. I don’t want to spill on my outfit before the date even starts. I can just picture him staring at the spot the whole night, distracted about whether to tell me or not.
I start cooking with the kind of excitement that’s a whole lot of adrenaline, some self-doubt, and maybe ten percent sheer delusion.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” I confess as I chop herbs. My hands are shaking, but in a good way. “I haven’t flirted since the accident. I barely remember how flirting works. Do people still flirt? Is that still a thing?”
Dog-Jason leans his head against my thigh, the warm, solid weight of him comforting me.
“I guess maybe you’re not going to be able to answer that are you?” I add the herbs to the pan with the salmon ready to go in the oven.
“Do dogs even flirt? Is that what all the butt sniffing is about?” I make my voice deep. “Hey, baby. C’mere so I can sniff that butt of yours.”
Jason sighs dramatically.
“All right, all right, I’m being ridiculous. I’ll stop now. Do you know what I like most about Human-Jason?” I ask. “He doesn’t talk to me like I’m fragile.” He talks to me like I’m a woman with a spine and a mind and a heartbeat, not someone made of cracked glass and disaster residue. He talks to me like I’m strong, even on days when I don’t feel it, when I can’t see it, when the only version of myself I recognize is the one limping through survival.
Somehow, just by being near me, by treating me like I’m capable, by handing me a knife and trusting me with it, he makes me believe I am too.
I add chopped garlic to the pan, and the kitchen fills with the scent of garlic butter. My mouth waters, and for a moment, I forget everything heavy in my life.
Slowly, carefully, I slot the pan into the oven. That was easy enough.
