Work Text:
Zoey had known Mira for almost a decade, long enough to have seen every haircut, every heartbreak, every dramatic declaration that she was “done with dating forever.” And in those ten years, Zoey had personally orchestrated, ejem… gently bullied Mira into exactly seven blind dates. Seven. Each one a different flavor of awkward disaster, ranging from the girl who brought her mother, to the one who tried to sell Mira essential oils between appetizers.
And still, somehow, Zoey insisted she didn’t meddle. Which was funny, because she absolutely did. She said things like, I gently facilitate destiny, while Mira sat on the couch, pinching the bridge of her nose, already regretting answering her phone.
“Just hear me out,” Zoey said, voice bright and suspiciously patient, which meant danger. “You like people. You like going outside. You like… romance.”
“I like Netflix,” Mira muttered. “I like sandwiches. I like not having my heart flung into a metaphorical wood chipper.”
Zoey made a thoughtful humming noise, the kind that said she was pretending to consider Mira’s point but had already decided to ignore it. “Okay, cool,” she said lightly. “But hypothetically, if there were someone who’s smart, funny, genuinely kind, and thinks in poetry…”
“No,” Mira said immediately.
“...and actually likes music, not ‘white noise with lyrics’ like that girl you dated who thought percussion was ‘too aggressive…’”
“No.”
“...and is also really lovely…”
“Zoey.”
“...and is single…”
“Zoey.”
A beat. Then with an unmistakable grin in her voice “Blind date?”
Mira dropped onto the couch and let her head fall back dramatically. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Mira said, flinging her hands out “blind dates are where two strangers sit at a table and pretend they’re not silently evaluating whether the other person eats like a velociraptor.”
“That only happened one time,” Zoey said. “And technically, she was more like… an enthusiastic hamster.”
Mira groaned. “I’m serious,” she said. “They’re always awkward. You always hype them like they’re going to be the one, and then they turn out to think astrology is a government conspiracy or that tipping is optional.”
Zoey snorted. “Okay, fair. But this one isn’t like that.”
“You say that every time.”
“Yes, and eventually, I’ll be right.”
Mira squinted suspiciously. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing,” Zoey said quickly. Too quickly.
“Zoey.”
“What?”
“Whenever you say ‘nothing,’ there is absolutely something.”
Zoey paused. Mira could almost hear her rearranging excuse folders inside her brain.
“She’s sweet,” Zoey said. “She makes these thoughtful little jokes that sneak up on you. She laughs like she means it. She loves food. She’s stubborn in a good way. She…”
Mira frowned, despite herself. “That sounds… nice.”
“It is.” Zoey softened. “Look,” she said gently. “You’ve been… floating. Work, home, sleep, repeat. You make sarcastic noises at the barista. You glare at couples who kiss in public…”
“I don’t glare.”
“You absolutely glare.”
Mira opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again.
Zoey’s voice gentled. “You deserve something soft,” she said. “Not dramatic. Not epic. Just… someone who makes the world feel like it fits again.”
Mira stared at the ceiling with a sigh. Her chest tugged, annoyingly sincere. “What if she doesn’t like me?” she asked quietly, before she could stop herself.
Zoey breathed out, warm. “She will.”
“That’s a bold assumption.”
“I’m right,” Zoey said simply.
Mira rubbed at the hem of her hoodie, suddenly very aware of her heartbeat. “And if I say no?”
“Then I love you anyway,” Zoey said. “And I’ll nag you again next month.”
Mira snorted and then, because she hated disappointing Zoey almost as much as she hated the idea of risk “Fine.”
“YES!”
“I regret everything.” Mira muttered.
“You’ll live.” Zoey said cheerfully. “I’ll text you the address. Be nice and don’t be weird.”
“Define weird.”
“Don’t ask about childhood trauma until date three.”
“Zoey!”
“Okay love you, bye!”
The call ended.
Mira stared at her phone, she pressed it to her face and groaned. “Terrible,” she whispered. “Brilliant. Terrible.”
And she was already nervous.
----------------------
Three days later on the other side of the city, Rumi was also nervous.
She sat at her vanity, mostly out of habit, not necessity, fingers brushing along the neat arrangement of things she kept in specific places. Brush, hair tie and a small glass bottle of perfume.
She didn’t need the reflection, she’d stopped needing them a long time ago. But she still liked the ritual. It grounded her.
Zoey’s words replayed in her head. “She’s good,” Zoey had said. “She’s sharp. She’s funny. She doesn’t talk down to people. She’s… steady.”
Rumi had tried not to read too much into it. Tried not to imagine that steady meant safe, she tried not to imagine too much at all.
“You don’t have to say yes,” Zoey had added. “If you don’t feel comfortable, don’t do it. I just thought maybe you might want to meet someone who isn’t already halfway gone.”
Rumi had laughed at that soft, sad and fond and then she’d said yes.
Now, sitting here, she wondered if that had been a mistake. Dating was complicated but dating while blind? Even more so.
People meant well but they also stared, or over explained, or spoke louder like she couldn’t hear either. Then they get uncomfortable and make the date into a “brave” inspirational moment, like she’d just climbed Everest instead of, you know, existing.
She could handle it, but that didn’t mean she liked it, she hated the moment, that moment when she felt someone realize Oh. She’s different.
She braided her hair slowly, fingers moving with practiced ease. Her hair slid through her hands smooth, familiar. She tied the end, then smoothed the braid down once more for luck.
“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “You can do this.”
She reached out and picked up her sunglasses, slipping them on. The world didn’t change, not in any way she could see, but people treated her differently when they couldn’t look into eyes that didn’t quite track the way others did.
Her hand brushed the cane again. She hesitated then she unfolded it. “Just in case,” she murmured, smiling faintly at the familiar refrain.
Her heartbeat thudded softly beneath her ribs.
The doorbell would ring soon.
----------------
Mira has changed three times.
The first outfit looked like she was trying too hard. The second was too casual, like she might be there to install someone’s Wi-Fi. The third one… jeans, a soft sweater the color Zoey called stormlight. Hair brushed out and left long, because she didn’t want to overstyle it and look like she cared too much, even though she absolutely did.
She looked at herself in the mirror and scowled. “This is stupid,” she muttered.
Outside the sky was early evening, soft, fading blue sliding toward gold. The street hummed with cars whispering past, a dog barking somewhere, wind gliding through tree leaves.
By the time she reached the building, her palms were slightly sweaty. She wiped them on her jeans, looked up at the building and laughed under her breath. “Zoey owes me so much food for this.”
She climbed the steps, found the apartment number and paused.
[Mira]
If I die, this is on you.
[Zoey]
You won’t die
Be nice
Don’t be weird
Also she’s great.
[Mira]
We’ll see.
She put her phone away before she could lose courage, pressed the doorbell and waited.
The door opened and there she was.
Rumi.
Her first thought was, Oh. She was beautiful.
Soft features, a braid over one shoulder, she had a quiet, attentive stillness, like she was listening to the world instead of simply standing in it. Up close, Mira noticed the faint scarring along the left side of her face, disappearing beneath the edge of the dark glasses. She held the door with one hand, the white cane leaned beside her.
“Hi,” Rumi said, voice gentle and curious. “Mira?”
Her voice had sunlight in it.
Mira smiled automatically.
“Yeah. Hi. You must be…” She cut herself off, because at the same moment, her brain registered something else. The cane. She blinked and before she could stop herself, the words slipped out awkward, unfiltered “What’s that for?”
Rumi paused, brows knitting slightly. “What do you mean?” she asked calmly, closing the door behind her with one hand. The soft click sounded louder than it should as she folded the cane, movements precise, familiar. She turned back again. “What do you mean?” she repeated.
Mira lifted a hand, gesturing. “The cane.” She chuckled, a little self conscious. “Sorry. I just, I’ve never seen one like that up close, I guess.”
Rumi’s lips curved faintly. “Just in case,” she said.
Mira tilted her head. “Just in case for what?”
There was a beat.
Rumi blinked.
“Mira… I’m blind.”
Everything stilled.
“Oh,” Mira said. She hadn’t meant it to sound shocked but it did.
Rumi’s fingers tightened slightly around the folded cane. Something about her shifted, inwards, like armor closing. “Wait,” Rumi asked softly. “Did you… not know that?”
Mira blinked again. “No.”
Rumi swallowed. “I thought Zoey would’ve told you.”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” Mira said honestly, brain scrambling to catch up.
Rumi’s free hand drifted up, threading through the end of her braid. Her expression shifted, not exactly surprised, more like resigned, like she had been expecting this. “Are you sure?” she murmured, almost to herself.
“I think I would’ve remembered her telling me you were” Mira winced as the word formed.”..fucking blind,” she finished, bitterness edged with humor.
The air between them changed.
Rumi drew in a slow breath. “We don’t have to do this,” she said, not angry, just tired. “I can go back inside.”
That did it.
Mira snapped out of her stunned haze. “No! hey, no. Wait.” She swore at herself under her breath. “Fuck. That came out wrong, really wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Rumi tilted her head slightly.
“What made you think I didn’t want to go out with you?” Mira rushed on.
Rumi’s mouth tugged into a small, humorless, tired smile. “Most people don’t want to go out with a blind girl.”
Something ugly twisted in Mira’s chest. “Well,” she said, steadier now, conviction settling in, “I’m not most people.”
Rumi didn’t relax, not yet. She went quietly still, like someone who’d learned to wait and see which way a moment would turn. Her brows knit slightly, unsure, cautious… but she didn’t step back either.
Mira inhaled. “Can I ask you a question?”
Rumi tilted her head, wary but genuinely curious. “Sure.”
“Can you taste food?”
Rumi blinked, surprised and then a soft laugh escaped before she could stop it. “Yeah. I love food.”
“Cool,” Mira nodded. “Me too. Okay, second question. Can you listen to good music?”
This time, Rumi smiled small and real. “I love music.”
“Okay,” Mira said, spreading her hands. “Soooo based on your answers, why the fuck would I not want to hang out with you?”
Silence.
Then Rumi laughed. It was soft, full bodied, honest and Mira’s heart did a strange swooping thing.
“Are you cute?” Rumi asked suddenly, teasing creeping back into her tone. She lifted a hand slightly, a question written in the gesture.
Mira stepped closer. “You can check,” she said lightly.
Rumi’s fingers brushed through her hair, along her shoulder, careful and respectful, like asking instead of taking. She paused, brows lifting slightly when her fingertips slid from soft length to the faint buzz near Mira’s nape.
“Oh,” she murmured, amused. “You’ve got long hair… but you also have an undercut. That feels really cool.” Her hand drifted back up, curious. “And it’s really soft. Also it smells good.”
Mira tried not to melt. “Thanks,” she managed. “I showered. For you.”
Rumi chuckled.
Mira hesitated. “Can I see your eyes?” she asked, gentle more a question than a request.
Rumi went still for a second at the question, not pulling away, just quiet. Mira could almost see the thought pass across her face, the weighing, the memory of other reactions, the way people sometimes changed once they knew.
Then Rumi exhaled soft, like she’d decided something. “Yeah,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “Okay.”
She lifted her sunglasses slowly.
Light brushed across her face. The faint scarring along the left side caught it first, then the eye beneath, the iris clouded, almost white while the right remained a warm, deep brown.
For a heartbeat, Mira simply looked at her, not startled, not pitying just… seeing her. Then her smile softened. “That’s beautiful,” she said, and meant it.
“Really?” Rumi asked, vulnerability threading through the word.
“Yeah,” Mira said, then grinned. “I mean, no, I wasn’t really looking. There’s a booger on your nose.”
Rumi gasped, swatted her shoulder, and burst into laughter, the tension breaking like it had never been there.
Mira raised both hands. “Kidding, I’m taller than you, I can't even look up your nose unless I bend down.” With the tension dissolved. Mira offered her arm and Rumi slipped her hand through, trusting and natural. “Ready?” Mira said softly.
Rumi nodded.
And Mira led the way and on the steps, she asked playfully “Do you wanna drive?”
Rumi’s laughter bubbled again. “Yes.”
They walked toward the car, their smiles matching, the night suddenly lighter.
And neither of them felt like backing out.
Not anymore.
------------------
Mira unlocked the car and opened the passenger door with a little flourish, as if the gesture might somehow impress the universe. “Your chariot,” she said, putting on an exaggeratedly serious tone.
Rumi laughed and reached out, letting her fingers brush the top edge of the door before she eased herself in. She found the seatbelt with no help, clipped it, then smoothed her braid over one shoulder again as if it was a nervous habit.
Mira circled around to the driver’s side.
Only when she sat down and closed the door did the small quiet settle between them it was new , but comfortable. The world outside hummed, streetlights buzzing faintly, neighbors murmuring in the distance but inside, everything felt slowed and contained.
Mira fastened her seatbelt and glanced sideways. “Okay,” she said softly. “Before we go anywhere, is the temperature okay? Seat comfortable? You need water? Snacks? Emotional support bread?”
Rumi tilted her head, smile already spreading. “Emotional support bread?”
“It’s very helpful,” Mira said solemnly. “You’re stressed, then boom carbs. Everything is better.”
Rumi laughed again, softer this time, more relaxed. “I’m good,” she said. “But I’ll keep the bread option in mind.”
“Good. Bread rescues save lives.”
Mira turned on the engine. The radio came on quietly, she barely noticed she instinctively turned it down, like she didn’t want to compete with the quiet. She checked her mirrors, not because she needed to in that exact moment, but because moving helped her nerves. “So,” she exhaled. “Here’s the thing. I overthink. A lot.”
“Really?” Rumi replied lightly. “I never would have guessed.”
“Rude,” Mira muttered, but there was a smile in it. “But yeah. So if I’m talking too much, you can say, ‘Hey Mira, shut up.’ I respect it.”
Rumi’s lips curved. “I’ll keep that in my back pocket.”
Mira chuckled, as she pulled out slowly. “Okay, you do that.”
They drove in easy silence for a minute, it wasn’t uncomfortable, didn’t feel like a test, it was… nice.
“So where are we going?”
“Somewhere cozy,” Mira said. “Not crowded, has good food, good music and minimal likelihood of essential oil sales pitches.”
Rumi snorted.
“Zoey told you about that one.”
“She absolutely did.”
There was a beat, then Rumi’s voice gentled. “You didn’t… have to still come. After the door.”
Mira’s hands tightened just a fraction on the wheel. “I know,” she said honestly. “I could’ve left. I could’ve made an excuse. But I didn’t.” She glanced over, then back at the road. “I’m here because I want to be.”
“Why?”
The question wasn’t insecure, just curious. Like she genuinely wanted to understand.
Mira breathed out. “Because the fact that you’re blind isn’t… the headline,” she said slowly. “It’s just a piece of you. And I like the pieces I’ve seen so far. Enough that I wanted to stay. Enough that I wanted to keep getting to know you.”
The answer lingered in the quiet.
Rumi didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, softly, “Thank you.”
Mira nodded, eyes on the road. “Yeah. Of course.”
The café sat at the corner of a quiet street, warm light spilling out through big windows, the faint smell of coffee and baked bread drifting even outside.
“Okay,” Mira said gently as she parked. “We’re here. I’ll come around.”
She got out and walked to Rumi’s side. When she opened the door, she didn’t reach immediately, she waited.
Rumi smiled faintly. “Arm?”
Mira offered it at once, heart tugging at the simple trust in that single word. Rumi slid out, found her footing, then matched Mira’s pace.
“Two small steps up,” Mira narrated softly. “Door opens inward. Handle’s to your right.”
Rumi’s fingers brushed the metal, then pushed.
Warmth washed over them, clinking plates, low laughter, soft acoustic music drifting like it had nowhere else to be.
Mira guided her toward a booth. “Table edge’s just in front. Bench seat.”
Rumi trailed her fingertips along the wood and sat.
Mira slid in across from her.
A server appeared, smiling.
“Hey! What can I get you started with?”
Rumi folded her hands together.
“What do you recommend?” she asked.
“We have a cinnamon honey latte that people lose their minds over,” the server said proudly. “And the grilled cheese with tomato basil soup is… spiritual.”
Rumi perked. “Okay, see, the word spiritual swayed me.”
Mira pointed. “We’ll take two. Please. Thank you.”
When the server left, Rumi leaned in conspiratorially. “Spiritual grilled cheese?”
Mira whispered back, “I’m willing to meet God if cheese is involved.”
Rumi laughed.
They fell into an easy rhythm. They talked about simple things first, favorite foods, worst movies, childhood hobbies. Rumi loved tactile puzzles and memorizing song lyrics. Mira once tried surfing and nearly drowned in knee deep water.
Then, gradually, conversation tilted.
Rumi tapped the table lightly. “Can I ask something?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you picture? Before you met me.”
Mira paused. “I didn’t,” she said after a moment. “Zoey gave me nothing. Which was probably intentional. She likes chaos.”
Rumi nodded, like that made sense.
Mira hesitated again. “Can I ask you something?”
Rumi smiled. “Sure.”
“What… is it like? To go on a date knowing that there’s this moment where you might have to tell someone something that changes how they see you?”
Rumi exhaled slowly. “It’s like walking toward a step you can’t avoid,” she said quietly. “You hope they don’t trip over it. But you’re already prepared to apologize for it being there.”
Mira’s chest ached. “I hate that,” she said softly.
Rumi shrugged lightly, not dismissive, just honest. “It’s part of things.”
“Still,” Mira said, more firmly. “I hate it.”
Their food arrived. Steam curled from the bowls, cheese stretched obscenely between slices of bread. Rumi leaned forward slightly, inhaling, lighting up instantly.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Okay. That smells unfair.”
Mira grinned. “Welcome to the spiritual experience.”
They ate. Rumi hummed when something tasted especially good. Mira watched, amused, delighted by every small pleased sound.
“Okay,” Rumi said at one point, pointing her spoon vaguely in Mira’s direction. “You were right. This is holy.”
“I accept your apology for ever doubting me.”
“I never apologized.”
“You did in your heart.”
They talked more. Rumi told stories about accidentally bumping into mannequins and apologizing to them. Mira admitted she once waved back at a person who wasn’t waving at her at all.
By the end of the meal, the air between them felt warmer, more anchored.
Mira paid, Rumi tried to argue, failed and vowed to get the next one. They stepped outside again, the night cooler now, air brushing their cheeks.
“Curb down,” Mira murmured. “And then open sidewalk.”
Rumi’s hand tightened briefly at Mira’s elbow, thankful and trusting.
The ride back was quieter.
Rumi rested her head lightly against the seat. “Can I say something weird?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” Mira replied. “I thrive on weird.”
“I forgot about it,” Rumi said softly. “For a while.”
“Forgot about…?”
“The cane.”
Mira didn’t speak for a second. “Good,” she said simply.
They reached Rumi’s place. Mira walked her up again, stopping at her door.
Rumi turned slightly toward her.
“I had fun,” she said.
Mira’s mouth softened.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Me too.”
Silence hovered curious, gentle.
Rumi lifted a hand tentatively. “Can I…?”
Mira stepped closer. “Yeah. Of course.”
Rumi’s fingers brushed her cheek, jaw, nose, hairline, mapping, learning. Not because she needed to decide anything but because understanding is its own language.
She smiled. “You make a lot of expressions when you’re listening.”
“I do not,” Mira objected softly.
“You do,” Rumi said warmly. “It’s… nice.”
Mira swallowed. “So is this.”
Rumi lowered her hand slowly. “Goodnight, Mira.”
“Goodnight, Rumi.”
The door closed gently.
Mira stood there for a moment, heart doing that ridiculous swooping thing again, before finally walking back down the hall feeling, for some reason, lighter.
And inside, Rumi leaned against her door, smiling to herself in the quiet.
Neither of them knew yet what this would be.
But both of them, privately and separately, hoped.
---------------------
Mira didn’t drive away right away. She sat there with the engine off, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel like she needed a minute to remember how to be a person again.
The night hummed around her.
A porch light blinked across the street. Somewhere, someone laughed. A distant car rolled by.
She exhaled. “That was…” she whispered. “Okay, that was really nice.”
Her mind replayed little things, not big ones, the warm curl of Rumi’s laugh, the way she’d hesitated before lifting her glasses afraid and brave at the same time, the clouded left eye, the faint scarring, the way she’d stayed anyway.
And the quiet trust of fingers tracing along her jaw and briefly over the little buzz of her undercut like it had surprised her.
Mira smiled without meaning to then immediately frowned at herself. “Okay. Calm down.”She picked up her phone, then put it down. “You just left her home.” Picked it up again. “Nope. Don’t be weird.” She said. “Later,” she muttered, turning the key.
Zoey was already on her couch when she got home, sprawled, smug, and surrounded by popcorn like a crime scene.
“You didn’t text,” Zoey accused.
Mira closed the door. “Hi, friend I love deeply. Nice to see you too.”
Zoey looked at her for a second and sat up, eyes narrowing. “You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Mira sighed, dropped onto the couch, and stole popcorn. “It was… good.”
Zoey’s delighted inhale was offensive. “Oh my god.”
“Stop.”
“You liiiike her.”
“Zoey.”
Zoey leaned in. “Tell me everything.”
Mira hesitated, then let herself speak. “She’s really funny. And patient. And she makes these small jokes like she’s testing the water and then gets shy about them. And she laughs like she means it.”
Zoey’s expression softened. “And?” she asked.
Mira swallowed. “And she’s blind,” she said quietly.
Zoey nodded. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Mira added.
“I know.”
“On purpose.”
“On purpose,” Zoey confirmed gently. “Because I knew you, you’d have made up a whole story in your head before she ever got a chance.”
Mira thought about that then sighed. “I said something dumb at first,” she admitted. “But then… I stayed. Because I wanted to.”
Zoey nudged her shoulder. “That’s the important part.”
Mira leaned back. “She let me see her eyes,” she said softly.
Zoey didn’t gasp or pity. She just listened.
“They’re different colors,” Mira continued. “The left one’s cloudy. There’s faint scarring. And she was scared, I could feel it but she still let me and somehow, it didn’t feel like a big tragic thing. It just… felt like her.”
Zoey smiled. “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” Mira murmured.
“And,” Zoey added gently, “you didn’t flinch.”
Mira blinked. “No,” she said, surprised by how true that was. “I didn’t.”
The words settled warm, simple. Zoey watched her for a second, then her lips curved. “You want to see her again, don’t you?”
Mira nodded, didn’t even pretend to dodge it. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “If she wants to. God, I hope she does.”
Zoey huffed a soft laugh. “Wow. One date and you’re already in trouble.”
Mira nodded, helpless and honest. “I am.”
Zoey’s expression softened. She stepped forward and hugged her quick and firm. “I’m proud of you.”
Mira rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Okay, go home before you start narrating my emotions.”
“I will never stop doing that,” Zoey said, grabbing her bag.
And then she was gone, leaving the apartment quieter and somehow calmer.
Mira moved through the rest of the evening on autopilot, rinsing a mug she didn’t remember using, brushing her teeth while replaying half a dozen moments from earlier, pausing in doorways like she’d forgotten what she’d gone there for but everywhere she went, Rumi followed her thoughts, her laugh, the way she’d hesitated before trusting, the quiet warmth of her presence.
It felt unreal that they’d parted ways only hours ago, that so little time had passed and yet Mira already missed her, already wanted to hear her voice again to say something, anything, just to keep the connection alive.
That night Mira lay in bed staring at her phone until it started staring back and then she finally typed,
[Mira]
I survived the drive home
[Rumi]
good, id hate to explain you dying to zoey
i had fun
The swoop in Mira’s chest was ridiculous.
[Mira]
Me too
There was a longer pause this time, Mira could only stare at the three dots on the screen and then,
[Rumi]
also… thank you
for how you handled things
with my eyes
and everything
Mira stared at the message longer than she meant to.
[Mira]
Thank you for trusting me.
You didn’t owe me that.
[Rumi]
still
im glad i did
also you snort when you laugh really hard
Mira stared at the message for a full second, then she snorted loud, unrepentant.
[Mira]
I absolutely do not.
[Rumi]
you do
it’s cute
Mira scoffed, dropping her phone onto the mattress. “Rude,” she muttered to the empty room, already grinning despite herself. She scrubbed a hand over her face, shook her head, and finally dragged the pillow up to her chest not to hide, but to muffle the blush she absolutely refused to acknowledge.
The texts kept coming and going, talking about anything and everything, like their favorite food or about people who put ketchup on everything (criminals) or Rumi’s neighbor who practiced saxophone late at night like a ghost in love.
[Rumi]
i should sleep
but this was nice
[Mira]
Yeah. Sleep.
Goodnight David Bowie
[Rumi]
goodnight, undercut rebel
Mira groaned and smiled.
She was in trouble.
—————————
Rumi lay on her bed, sunglasses set neatly on the table, cane folded by the door where it always lived within reach.
She lifted a hand and brushed her fingers lightly along the edge beneath her left eye, a familiar, absent minded habit. The faint texture there, the place where skin remembered something it didn’t need to explain anymore.
She replayed the dates in moments, the door opening, Mira’s voice saying her name, that split second of hesitation, when Rumi had waited for the shift, the pause where people recalculated, where warmth cooled into politeness or discomfort or something worse.
She’d been braced for it, the pity, the disappointment and careful, soft tone people used when they realized they were suddenly supposed to be kind instead of just normal.
She’d expected Mira to leave, or stay out of obligation and treat the rest of the evening like a charitable act. Instead, Mira had stayed because she wanted to.
That alone had already felt unreal.
And then the question, Can I see your eyes?
Rumi had almost said no. Her body remembered other reactions too well, the awkward silence, the quick recovery that came too late to undo the damage. She’d learned how to read that moment, how to protect herself from it.
She’d been nervous. Scared, even but something about Mira, the way she asked, the way she waited told her this might be different.
So she’d trusted her and lifted the glasses. For a heartbeat, she’d felt completely exposed, not just seen, but known in that way that made your chest go tight.
And Mira had looked and then teated her like Rumi was still Rumi. Then she’d joked and just like that, the moment had softened.
Rumi let out a quiet laugh now, shaking her head into the pillow.
Ordinary.
That was it.
Mira hadn’t treated her like an exception or a problem to be handled carefully. She’d treated her like a girl on a date. One who liked good food, bad jokes, and walking slowly through the street with someone whose arm felt steady beneath her hand.
The memory spread softly through her as Rumi turned to her side, a small smile lingering on her lips.
Maybe, just maybe, this time, she hadn’t been wrong to hope.