The people Who See Straight Through You

"I don't see me in your eyes. Only her."

What a strange day it has been.

Practice was practice — and good practice at that. After yesterday's difficulty, something simply clicked today, the way things occasionally do without warning or explanation. The new form settled into place with a naturalness that felt almost unreasonable given how distant it had seemed just twenty-four hours before.

The difference was as stark as night and day, and the only thing that had actually changed was that my head felt like it was back on my shoulders. There was a calmness in the motion. What had felt unreachable yesterday now felt familiar, almost obvious — as though it had been waiting patiently for me to stop getting in the way.

Lunch brought another visit to the doctor, though this time he suggested something different. I accepted readily, on the reasonable assumption that anything must be better than electrified needles. I was not entirely right about this. The new treatment involved a larger needle — inserted into the muscle — with a serrated edge, designed to break up scar tissue and allow the muscle to repair itself without interference from old damage. It was not fun. It was not something I would choose for entertainment. But training this afternoon carried, for the first time in a week, a particular absence — the sharp pain that had accompanied every left foot step was simply gone. Or quieter, at least. Quiet enough to notice the silence where it used to be.

And then came the line.

"I don't see me in your eyes. Only her."

Could it be true? Could I really be that transparent — that readable — without knowing it? I'm genuinely not sure. It doesn't trouble me. It made me laugh, actually, in the way that things do when they land a little too close to the truth to argue with.

Perhaps some people can read us more easily than we would ever care to admit. Perhaps others project stories onto us to entertain themselves, or to make sense of what they see. Perhaps both things are true at once, which seems about right for a Thursday that began with a serrated needle and ended with a question I'm still quietly turning over.