I got my first pair of glasses last week. They're nothing fancy—just thin silver frames with lenses so clear they almost feel invisible. My parents didn't think I needed them at first. "You're probably just squinting too much," Mom said, brushing off my complaints about blurry street signs and smudged words on the chalkboard at school. But after months of headaches and missed details, Dad finally caved and took me to an eye doctor.
The appointment was uneventful until the very end. After running all the usual tests—reading charts, staring into bright lights—the doctor leaned back in his chair, studying me intently. His expression shifted from professional detachment to something darker, heavier.
"There's something unusual here," he murmured, tapping his pen against his clipboard. He explained that it wasn't just my vision that was impaired—it was deeper than that. Something wrong with how I processed the world around me. "It's rare but not unheard of," he added cryptically. "You'll need specially prescribed lenses… for your own good."
"For my own good?" I echoed, frowning. That phrase always sounded ominous, like a warning wrapped in kindness.
He nodded solemnly. "Many people never get the chance to see the way you will. Consider yourself lucky."
Lucky? I wasn't sure what to make of that, but I left the office wearing my new glasses, eager to test them out. At first, everything seemed normal. Trees looked sharper, road signs were legible, and even the tiny cracks in the sidewalk stood out vividly. It felt like magic—a whole new level of clarity.
But then came the changes.
On the third day, I noticed movement in the corner of my bedroom when no one else was home. A flicker, a shadow stretching longer than it should have. When I turned to look directly at it, it vanished, leaving behind only the faintest impression of… something. Something wrong.
By the fourth day, the shadows had grown bolder. In the grocery store parking lot, I saw figures lurking between cars—tall, spindly things with elongated limbs and hollow eyes that glowed faintly in the dusk. One of them tilted its head toward me, watching silently before melting into the darkness. I told myself it was just fatigue playing tricks on my mind, but deep down, I knew better.
And then there were the whispers.
They started softly, barely audible over the hum of everyday life. Whispers coming from places where no one stood. From empty hallways, darkened alleyways, the spaces beneath my bed. Words I couldn't quite understand, spoken in voices that scraped against my ears like nails on glass.
Today, I decided to take the glasses off.
For the first time since getting them, I removed the frames and set them carefully on my desk. The world blurred instantly, softening into comforting haziness. I glanced at the corners of my room—the ones that had been teeming with unseen horrors mere moments ago—and sighed in relief. No creatures lurked there now. Just ordinary shadows cast by furniture, harmless and inert.
Outside, the parking lot returned to its usual state: rows of parked cars under dim orange lights, devoid of any lurking monstrosities. Even the whispers faded, replaced by the soothing silence of ignorance.
It hit me then: these glasses weren't meant to correct my vision—they were meant to reveal a hidden layer of existence, one most people never glimpsed. And while part of me wanted to keep them on—to confront the truth—I couldn't bear the weight of it. Knowing what lurked just beyond the veil of normalcy made the world feel smaller, colder, less safe.
So I chose to leave the glasses behind. To let the world remain blurry, indistinct, and blissfully ordinary. Because some truths are too heavy to carry, and some sights are best left unseen.