𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 | gojo s.

𝟏

The world never looks the way people describe it to me.

I remember colors from when I was little — before everything became hazy, twisted into strange, unrecognizable shapes. Back then, I could see the sky clearly. It was always bright, a vivid blue that stretched endlessly above me, dotted with puffy white clouds. I could watch the leaves on the trees sway, their vibrant green shades rustling in the wind. Now, the sky is nothing but a smear of light, and the leaves are only the faintest shadow of what I used to know.

I lost my sight when I was eleven. It came gradually, like a fog rolling in, making everything dimmer by the day. By the time I was thirteen, I could barely make out anything without it feeling distorted, blurred at the edges like a smudged painting. The doctors told me it was because of my epilepsy. “Cortical Visual Impairment,” they called it. I call it something else: a never-ending maze.

Every morning, my fingers are my eyes. I wake up, reach out, and feel the cool wood of my nightstand to make sure I’m still where I think I am. Then I slide my feet to the floor, counting my steps toward the bathroom — seven steps, always the same. The tap squeaks when I turn it on, and I let the sound guide me as I brush my teeth, careful to keep everything in its exact place. I can’t afford to lose track of anything. Not when I depend on every small detail to make sense of the world.

Today is no different. My hair is long — smooth and straight as it falls past my shoulders, brushing against my back. I run my fingers through it, parting the strands carefully before smoothing the bangs down over my forehead. It’s an automatic habit by now, something I do to feel normal, even when I can’t see the result in the mirror. But it doesn’t matter. I still remember what I look like. My mother always tells me, “You’re just as beautiful as ever, Sakura. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I wish I believed her.

My cane waits for me by the door, white and sturdy, folded neatly into itself. I pick it up with one hand while grabbing my bag with the other. I know the layout of our small house by heart. Every chair, every table — it’s all in my mental map, the one that helps me move without hesitation. I don’t trip or stumble. I’ve trained myself not to.

Mom is waiting for me in the kitchen when I walk out, her movements quiet but purposeful. I can smell the faint aroma of miso soup in the air, and the soft clink of dishes tells me she’s already preparing breakfast.

“Good morning, Sakura,” she says, her voice soft but filled with warmth. I hear her approach, and a moment later, she places a bowl gently into my hands.

“Morning, Okasan,” I reply, offering a small smile even though she can’t see it. I sit down at the kitchen table, feeling the smooth surface of the wood beneath my fingertips before setting the bowl down in front of me.

I’m careful as I eat, letting the flavors wash over me while I focus on the routine. Every morning is the same. Miso soup, rice, maybe some fish if Mom had time to make it. I like it this way — predictable, safe. I need that kind of stability.

But outside, things aren’t as simple.

By the time I’m ready to leave, Mom is at the door, holding my jacket for me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the bus stop today?” she asks, her concern evident. She always asks, and I always tell her the same thing.

“I’ll be fine, Mom. I know the way.” I offer her a reassuring smile, even though I know she’ll still worry.

The bus stop is only five minutes from our house, but to her, it might as well be an hour away. I understand her concern. Ever since Dad passed away, it’s been just the two of us. She’s always tried her best to protect me, especially after my sight began to fade. But I don’t want to be coddled. I want to live my life like everyone else.