She tried. But still she could not see.
Not the way she should have. Not the way others expected her to. Not how they could. All crisp lines and sharp edges.
There was no focus to her sight. No defined hues.
No wonder others thought she had no need for any.
She used to think it was her fault. Her eyes a reflection of failure.
She’d seen a doctor since. In secret, but at least this one was hers to hold in confidence.
Her optic nerve had never fully formed.
But her heart, she now knew, saw perfectly.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields