We were attached at the eyes. Held together by what felt like a string, from cornea to cornea. But it had to be some elastic membrane. It felt like a glob of mascara that gets left behind after washing off the night's makeup, poorly.
He didn't seem to realize we were bound together this way. He didn't notice the pain it caused me when he began to tear at the fiber, using his finger tips to sever our tie. It was so effortless. My eyes watered, they didn't cry. It felt as though he was ripping the smallest piece of skin from a cuticle, only it didn't feel like that at all.
We were separated. He walked away. I stared at myself in the mirror that was a good four inches too high. I glared at the reflection of my forehead.
I panicked. Why wasn't this an emergency to anyone else?
I blinked.
Something changed.
I felt as if pulling off a layer of tissue was the answer. Somehow I knew this to be the cure, and it was, for a second.
Until the world dimmed, the colors muted.
I screamed.
"It's fine," someone said
I didn't speak. I didn't cry.
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