Page 68 of Light in Your Eyes
I let out a sigh of relief. It's crazy that I feel anxious just because I need someone to do something simple like this.
I just need to keep hearing her voice—that's why I asked her to read to me—but she doesn't have to know it.
When we first met, I thought that her voice was annoying, but it was only because it affected me.
"Which book do you want me to read to you?" Layla asks.
I feel stupid because I don't even think about it. I just want her to read something to me.
My little sister, Inez, used to lend me her favorite books. I haven't read them again for a long time because they're not Braille books.
"It's somewhere on the shelf next to my desk," I say. "They are regular books. Just pick the one you're interested in. They're the best ones."
They really are because I'm not going to insult Inez's treasures. I still remember the excitement on Inez's face and how she spoke giddily every time she just found a new favorite.
She always forced me to read it too, and I gladly accepted it.
"What about this?" Layla echoes, giving me the impression that she’s now reading the title of the book she just picked from the shelf. "Ashes of the Hour?"
It's a poetry book written by Inez's favorite poet. Ironically, it's the last book Inez lent to me before she died.
"I guess it's a yes?" Layla says, and I can imagine her raising her eyebrows. "You're not frowning or scowling. It's a yes," she teases.
I roll my eyes, but I don't feel annoyed. She moves the chair behind the desk closer to me so that she can sit in front of me. I hear the sound of her flipping the pages.
"Shall we begin?" she asks.
I nod.
Slowly, she reads it to me, "I didn’t cry. Not because I wasn’t breaking, but because I feared that if I started, I’d never stop."
I breathe, listening to her soothing voice. It's soft, calming me. The weight of the sentence doesn't bother me.
"Grief is strange. It doesn’t sit politely in the corner. It lingers everywhere." More words leave her mouth.
I feel like I can listen to her forever. I realize that it's not only her laughter that I like to hear but also every sound she makes. Even her whisper at the end of the sentence does something to me, and I don't know how she does that.
The only sound that I hate to hear from her is the sound of her crying. At first, I thought that it was just irritating. But now, the thought of hearing her cries makes me livid.
Layla reads the book so smoothly, like flowing water—I don't even remember the time passing while I'm listening to her. I don't know how long we've been staying like this—me sitting here while listening to her voice and her reading the books to me with so much gentleness.
"And if love could have saved you…" she begins again, and I open my mouth too.
"You’d still be here," we say in unison.
I remember those words because I think about them countless times.
"The way—"
"What color?" I interrupt in the middle of hersentence—the words slip from my tongue.
"Sorry?" she asks in confusion.
"Your hair."
Silence falls, and I bet that she doesn't understand why the hell I'm asking such a question.
"Um, auburn," she says.
