I plug in my headphones, shuffle through emails on my phone, and open up Facebook again. I check the Chicago Lighthouse page, a forum for the blind. I miss my vision-impaired city friends. There used to be a small group of us who met up at the Chicago Lighthouse once a week. After Chris died and I decided to move in with my mother, it was like suffering yet another loss.

Having other vision-impaired friends was a lifesaver in countless ways. We didn’t talk about our disability—we just talked about life. But they understood my need to be in the suburbs.

When I left, a few of them warned me how hard it would be without vision-impaired friends, but I’d knocked away their concerns. I didn’t want to admit to anyone how hard it was to prove myself to a world of people who took their vision for granted. Hell, I used to be one of them.

But they were right.

However, it was on my to-do list—to find a vision-impaired community in the suburbs—but life seems to keep getting in the way. I navigate away from the Chicago Lighthouse page, but before logging off, I’m notified that a direct message has come through from Jake. Did I will him to contact me just from thinking about him? I dismiss the ridiculous notion, but my heartbeat quickens as I hold my finger over it to listen.

Hey, Bec. I know it’s been a long time, and I didn’t know if you had the same cell. I heard about your mom and your husband … I’m so sorry. I’m back in Chicago and would love to see you and catch up. Here’s my cell: 773.858.7663. I miss you.

I hike up the volume and replay the message. Jake is back in Chicago? Jake misses me? Eleven years have gone by, and he still misses me. I close the message and drop the phone in my lap. I obviously shouldn’t respond.

I pick up the phone again. I have a book queued up on Audible but suddenly am thick with fatigue. I close my eyes and don’t open them until the train rumbles into Ogilvie station.

My limbs rebel when I stand, joints stiff and bones like lead. My sleep-starved body demands more. We exit and the familiar city smells hit me, like hot cat piss and a thousand dirty gym bags. But then I think about what’s outside: energy, nature, steel, possibility, memories … him.

I maneuver through the tight spaces and mumble my apologies to people in massive hurries. An elbow jabs my ribs. Sweat already dampens my clothes, and it’s still morning. I huff up the stairs, erecting my cane and sweeping it over the concrete. Finally, I explode outside to a slight chill from the lake and a blast of buttery sunshine I’d give my left arm to see.