I HAVE A lazy eye. There it is ― my not-so-secret insecurity. Most people say they barely notice it, and I wish I could say the same. But to me, it’s always there, quietly present like a shadow in every reflection, every photograph, every tired glance in the mirror.
Somewhere along the line, I started seeing photos I’m in not as memories but as moments of self-negotiation. I analyze my gaze, fixate on the right eye drifting inward, and tell myself (sometimes convincingly) that it’s fine. That it doesn’t define me. That it’s just a small thing.
But when I’m exhausted or a few drinks deep, it shows up in full force, a visible reminder that I’m not always in control of how I’m seen. I wear glasses daily, not out of necessity ― my prescription is barely there ― but because they offer a filter. A shield. A small, stylish buffer between my wandering eye and the world.
The worst part? I feel it. Not just emotionally, but physically. There’s a subtle yet persistent tugging deep behind my right eye. It’s like my body whispering a reminder that something isn’t quite aligned. It’s an invisible weight I carry, a quiet tension that flares up when I’m tired, stressed, or staring at my computer screen too long (I’m a writer, so this is an everyday occurrence). That tug is the signal, my giveaway. It tells me that my eye has drifted again. That the mask has slipped. That I look, in the cruel words of more than one person throughout my childhood, “ridiculous.”
