Chapter 2
The dimly lit dorm room hummed with the quiet energy of a typical Friday night. The low thrum of classic rock drifted through the space, its gritty guitar riffs blending with the sounds of laughter and chatter from neighboring rooms. Matt and Foggy lounged on their respective beds, nursing cans of cheap beer, their bodies sinking into the familiar worn-in mattresses. Despite the buzz of the night around them, there was a kind of peaceful silence between the two, as if the world outside the room had faded into the background.
Matt absently ran his fingers over the edge of his cane, lost in thought, while Foggy stared at the ceiling, his mind wandering as he sipped from his beer. It wasn’t often they had moments like this—just the two of them, in the comfort of shared silence. But it was in these moments that Foggy found himself reflecting on their friendship, marveling at the unlikely bond that had formed between them. In many ways, Matt had become the brother he never had, someone who was unwaveringly loyal, strong, and fiercely determined. A constant in the storm that was his life.
"Hey, Matt," Foggy finally spoke up, breaking the quiet that had settled between them. His voice was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something more sincere.
Matt turned toward him, his lips curling into a small, genuine smile. "Yeah, Foggy?" He said, his voice warm, his hands idly playing with the cane in his lap, tapping it lightly against the floor as if it had its own rhythm.
Foggy hesitated for a moment, the words feeling heavier now that he was about to say them aloud. His gaze dropped to the beer can in his hand as if the answer might be written there. “I... I just wanted to say thanks,” he began, his voice softening with meaning. “For being such a great friend.”
Matt’s smile widened, his expression radiating warmth and appreciation. “Anytime, Foggy. You know I’ve got your back,” he replied, his voice steady and reassuring. The simplicity of his words spoke volumes, a quiet promise that had been part of their friendship from the start.
They shared a grin, a moment of unspoken understanding passing between them. Without needing to say anything more, they raised their beer cans, clinking them together in a silent toast to their bond. The familiar sound of the cans connecting felt like a punctuation mark to the exchange, cementing the strength of their friendship in that small, simple gesture.
As the night wore on, the cans of beer dwindled, and the world outside continued its usual chaos. But inside the room, the laughter and easy camaraderie between Matt and Foggy grew louder, more freeing. All the usual worries—the assignments, the stresses, the uncertainties—seemed to melt away in the haze of alcohol and friendship. By the time they made their way to a park bench, nearing 4 AM, the weight of the world felt a little lighter.
Foggy glanced at his watch, his eyes narrowing at the time. A sudden pang of guilt tugged at him, reminding him that they were likely the last people still out in the city. "Hey, Matt," he said, his tone shifting, the buzz of alcohol fading slightly. "We should probably head back to the dorm. It’s getting late... or early. Not sure which, but either way, it’s probably time."
Matt shook his head with a slow smile, as if the idea of heading back didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. “Nah, I’m good here. I like spending time outside at night,” he said, his voice steady, the contentment in his words evident.
As Matt spoke, his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, an almost unconscious motion that made Foggy’s gaze snap to them. Without missing a beat, Matt reached up to adjust them, pushing them back into place with the practiced ease that had become second nature. It was a gesture Foggy had seen a thousand times, yet tonight, it felt more significant somehow. The movement was almost like a shield, a habit that ran deeper than just his blindness. It struck Foggy in a way that he hadn’t expected, sparking an old curiosity he couldn’t shake.
Foggy watched him for a moment, trying to keep his voice steady as he gathered the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at him for months. “Hey, Matt,” he said, his words measured as he tried to sound sober and serious, “I’ve been meaning to ask... Why do you always keep your glasses glued to your face? You don’t have to hide anything from me.”
Matt froze. His hand remained suspended in the air, still resting on his glasses, as if the question had caught him off guard. For a split second, he seemed to hesitate, caught between saying something and retreating into silence. It was a moment of vulnerability, one that Foggy wasn’t used to seeing. And in that brief pause, Foggy saw it—the weight behind Matt’s glasses. It wasn’t just about sight, wasn’t just about blindness. There was something more.
Matt's voice, when it finally came, was quieter than usual, almost a whisper in the night air. “It’s complicated, Foggy,” he said, his tone low, like the words had been heavy on his chest for too long. “Some things are better left unsaid.”
Foggy nodded, the weight of Matt’s words settling between them like an unspoken wall. He could feel the tension, the way Matt was pulling back, but something inside him pushed him forward. “I know, that’s what you said last time, Matt,” he said, his voice growing a little firmer. “But we’re friends. Friends are supposed to be vulnerable with each other. You know, I don’t really know anything about you. Besides that you grew up in an orphanage in Hell’s Kitchen. I wanna know you, Matt. You don’t have to hide behind your sunglasses.”
Matt sat still for a long moment, his fingers still toying with his cane, the familiar movement both a comfort and a signal of his inner conflict. Foggy could see the way his friend wrestled with the words, the silence stretching longer than it should have. The alcohol might have been loosening his tongue, but Foggy knew there was more at play here. The tension between them was palpable, a dance of trust and distance, both trying to navigate a conversation that neither of them had quite figured out how to have.
The moment hung between them, thick with unspoken things, and then finally, Matt let out a quiet breath. “Alright, let’s get home,” he muttered, standing up and brushing off his jeans. His voice was softer now, but there was something in the way he moved—something that hinted at the rawness behind his guarded exterior.
Foggy, sensing the shift, stood too, but instead of heading straight for the street, he offered Matt an elbow, a simple gesture that carried more meaning than it seemed. “Come on, man,” Foggy said with a half-smile. “Let’s get you home. I’m not letting you wander around the city like this.”
Matt hesitated for only a moment before slipping his arm through Foggy’s, the small movement a rare acknowledgment of the support he’d been given. As they walked side by side into the early morning, the city’s skyline stretched before them, but for once, neither of them felt as lost as they had before.