Cure for the Blind

The day after Winry lost both of her parents in the train wreck, she tore. There was a moment of grieving for her, yes, but eventually she returned to her old, smiling self again. Or tried.

He hated it so damn much: how hard she tried to fake a grin, how hugely agonizing her eyes had become. He felt like he was visiting with a doll, a lifeless imposter.

Despite that, however, every inch of him wanted to help her, wanted to grab her wrists and pull her back up onto her feet.

Why didn’t she talk to him? Why didn’t she recover the normal way? Why didn’t she cry it all out instead of keep the sorrow behind a shell? He would’ve understood. Hell, she could’ve gotten angry, decided antagonism on the train operator. Even such a mindset was better than this nothingness.

One day, he approached her sitting at the top of the hill, overlooking the town as though she were some far off spirit, no longer apart of this world. He kneeled down, and she turned her head and realized he was there, and for a great long time they were silent statues. There was something different this instance, however, because he could almost hear her shouting at the top of her lungs, “I want to keep going! I want to view and experience everything some more! There’s so much I haven’t done!”

Finally, her lashes lowered to his face again, a curve of a lost smile just dotting her lips. He had seen it too many times before. “Edward,” She quietly spoke.

For a second, he had become something else, he didn’t know what, or maybe he was just Edward, or maybe he was absolutely nothing at all, but he clutched the warmth of her hand and kissed her. On the lips. Just like that.

And the whole while he kept thinking, See the world, then, see it!