Alternative: Write a scene from the point of view of someone deaf or blind.

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I listen to the rustling of paper as I turn the pages of the book slowly. Bending my head down as if I'm reading it, I blink at the darkness in front of me.

I run my fingers along the spine of the book continuously, up and down, up and down.

Strangely, it's a comfort to know that, at least, books don't think you're weird even if you can't read them.

They don't gasp with pity or touch your hand with concern or whisper behind your back. They just repeat the same words to you over and over again, not caring who they're saying them to.

Maybe that's why I love coming here, a place where people like me don't usually belong. No one disturbs you; everyone seems lost in their book world, or at least that's what I imagine.

There's a lot of things I have to satisfy with my imagination.

Hearing about blue and green and white, about how the ocean looks so beautiful in summer and how the lightning lights up the night when it strikes across the sky might as well be another language to me.

When I tell people this, about how I imagine things, they always wonder how that's possible when I don't even know how anything looks like. When I don't even know how the things I imagine things look like, look like.

How can you imagine what things look like when you've never seen anything?

Most times, I don't mind. I like to think that what I'm imagining is the real thing, and everyone else in the world is wrong. As if I'm the only one who can see, and everyone else can't.

But sometimes, very frequently, I would like to see what the rest of the world sees. Just once, if I can. To fill my eyes with what everything looks like and not being unsure about it for once.

The only thing I'm absolutely sure about is the color black.

I sigh at my gloomy thoughts and realize I lost my place in the book I'm holding. Turning the pages so that I'm at the beginning again, I repeat the words I memorized from the tape of the same book at home, as if I'm actually reading it. For some reason, I've gotten in the habit of doing that for a while now; I guess it's one of the ways I tell myself I can live like normal people. I don't know if it works though.

When I'm on the third page, I hear the sound of someone sitting in the seat next to me. I pretend to not notice.

Even when I hear them coughing as if to get my attention, my lips don't stop moving inaudibly to the endlessly repeated words flowing out of my memory.

"Um, e-excuse me. Not trying to be creepy or anything, but I've seen you around here a couple of times before, and I-I was just wondering if I could know your name?"

This time, I stop the words as if I'm turning off a faucet and lower the book unto my lap. But I don't look up, my hair covering my face from his view, from anyone's view actually.

"S-sorry if I'm bothering you, it's just that I'm the type that can't bear to have something on my mind without figuring it out. And ever since I saw you come in here, I've been wanting to get to know you. N-not that I have an interest in you, just that I wanted to be your friend. Well, I guess that is having an interest, but not that kind! Don't take it the wrong way, I-"

A very small laugh, but a laugh all the same, slips out of my mouth from his silly nervousness.

He clears his throat as if he's embarrassed, and we both sit in awkward anticipation for the other to speak first.

Not knowing where the courage came from, I suddenly lift my head and turn toward the direction from where his voice had sounded.

Surely when he sees my eyes...

My eyes have always been a kind of detector. When people see them, it's like they automatically bring out their real self. Whether it's pity, mockery, or genuine sympathy, I've never liked any of them. Whatever they did, it never failed to remind me that I was blind. That the only thing I would ever see is darkness.

I wait for the gasp, the touch of the hand, the scoff. But instead, I hear something else. Something that I've never heard before in this situation.

Talking.

He continues to talk as if I can see perfectly well.

As if I was normal.

"Hey, I was wondering when you would lift your head. I was actually beginning to think you fell asleep or something. But that would be extremely rude, especially when someone's talking to them. Unless you have narcolepsy or something...you don't, right?"

I stay silent and unmoving, not knowing what to do. Any other response, and I would've gone into action right away. A fake smile for a gasp, a nod of recognition for a touch of the hand, an expressionless face for a scoff.

But I don't know what to do when someone talks to me as if I could see.

So, I stay frozen, my head still turned toward his direction.

"Um, am I creeping you out or something? Is that why you're not talking? It's alright, I'm not a weird person...at least that's what I think. But you can trust my judgement."

I can hear the friendly grin in his words, although I don't know how that's possible. I unconsciously follow suit, soon feeling a smile tugging at the edge of my lips.

"Hey, you're smiling! I made you smile! I always knew I was a funny guy."

I hear two pats, and I reason he patted himself on the shoulder.

"Good job, Luke, good job." I hear him say in a quieter voice, as if he's talking to himself.

I feel the urge to shake my head at his silliness, but I don't.

"So, do you have a voice too? I think we're both tired of hearing mine by now."

He quiets down in expectation, and I search my brain for what to say. But it's like the faucet is broken.

Where did all those endlessly repeated words go?

But then again, they weren't mine in the first place.

Not wanting to keep him waiting, I just utter out one word.

"Hi."

The sound of his chuckles reaches my ears, and he replies, "Well, hi to you too. Actually, thinking about it, I never introduced myself."

I hear the squeak of a chair, and he takes one of my hands in his and shakes it.

"My name's Luke. How about you?"

"Willa."

"I once met someone with the same name as you. Except she was younger and not half as pretty."

At his blunt statement, I duck my head in embarrassment and feel a blush taking over my, once, cold face.

I guess he doesn't notice, because he continues, "And I met her at an elementary school I'm volunteering at. She was quite the smart aleck too. But you don't seem like that type."

After a brief pause, I hear him ask, "What book are you reading?" And he takes the book I'm holding to see for himself.

The sound of pages ruffling as he looks through it sends a pleasant feeling through me. I've always liked that sound.

"Oh, I've seen some of my friends reading this book." He places the book back into my hands and asks a question that makes me stunned for the second time that day.

"Can you read some for me?"

"Wh-what?" I stutter in disbelief of what I heard.

"Can you read some for me," he repeats, more like a statement than a question.

I cringe my face in confusion and reply, "I-I can't."

"Why not? I've seen you read it before."

I stay silent.

What is he doing? Can't he see I'm blind?

Then, I realize what he's trying to do.

My face contorts in suppressed anger, and I take a deep breath to control myself.

"Willa, are you okay?"

I keep my head down and say, "You can stop now."

"Huh?"

"I'm used to people scoffing and mocking me when they find out my condition. So it's not like that hurts me anymore."

I lift my head in his direction and continue as if I can see him. "But I never knew someone would be this cruel. Do you really have to do all this just to make fun of the fact that I'm blind?"

By now, I'm trembling from trying so hard to press down my anger, and I turn the opposite direction from him.

"Wh-what? Willa, I don't know what you're saying. I never tri-" He pauses, and in spite of my anger, I'm curious.

Then he suddenly puts his hand on my arm, and I tense from the sudden contact.

"Willa, you're misunderstanding. I'm not trying to make fun of you. If this is about how I asked you to read the book, that was because-"

Standing up, I curtly say back, "It doesn't matter. Since you accomplished your goal of mocking me, I think I'll go now."

I hear the squeak of a chair as he stands up, and he puts his hand on my shoulder and gently turns me around.

"You're right. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that you're blind."

I'm dumbfounded at his words. What?

"Why should it matter whether you can see or not? You're still a person. The fact that you can't see doesn't change the fact that you're a person just like the rest of us."

I drop my head so he doesn't see my face. What is he saying?

"And doesn't a person deserve to be treated like a person?"

When I don't answer, he continues, "I wasn't trying to make fun of you, Willa. Why I asked you to read the book was because I wanted you to feel normal, not like some freak who can't see, 'cause you're not a freak. I've seen you move your lips to the exact words that were in this book."

He sighs, "And I'm starting to sound like a stalker again, but if that's what it takes to make you believe me, then I don't care."

A chuckle makes its way up my throat, and I suppress it.

"Willa, I want to be your friend. I promise that I'll never make fun of you."

Should I believe him?

I want to.

"I promise on all my superhero action figures."

At his statement, I laugh, and that serves to be my reply. I don't know if I'm being rash in believing him so quickly, but I save that worry for another day.

Even though I can't see, I can tell that he has a grin on his face.

A grin that I hope to see all throughout my life.