My life changed irrevocably when my mother shipped me off to a blind person support group. Or at least that single occurrence, an unexceptional event in itself, is what laid the foundation for so many things that would happen after. No matter how ironic it is that she gets all the credit, it was undeniably my mother's insistence that I talk to others 'like myself' that led to, well… I guess everything.

Ironically, I refused to go back after attending a single meeting. Not that it was awful or anything. Honestly, I stayed for about thirty seconds. Maybe it would've been an 'eye-opening experience' (pun intended, by the way), but I wasn't willing to stick around and find out. See, as soon as I walked in, the guy leading the thing started talking about how not being able to see wasn't a handicap. Then he went on to say that he hadn't ever seen anything in his life, and he was just fine.

I wasn't a very judgmental person. I mean, I grew up with a brother who liked to shove pretzel rods up his nose and pretend to be a walrus, a mother who fretted if I wanted to use the bathroom by myself, and a father who drank a lot. Any judging I did, I felt, was a tad bit hypocritical.

Judgmental or not, I still thought the group leader was a priss. I mean, it's easy to say there's nothing wrong with not seeing when you don't know what it's like to do so, but when a person grows up knowing what sunsets and waterfalls and city skylines look like, there's no way they can look at blindness as anything but a handicap. At least I couldn't. To say I was a bit upset about my circumstances would be an understatement, and when Joe Smileyface started blabbering about how blindness was a blessing, I decided I had better things to do with my life than listen to his drivel.

My mother threw a bit of a fit when I told her I wasn't going back. She was rather unhappy about my uncharacteristically pessimistic attitude on the blindness issue, and she thought it would do me good to continue attending the meetings.

I protested.

She said I was to go, whether I wanted to or not.

Generally, I'm a pretty obedient person. If it was anything else, I would've listened. Only this was a big deal to me, and I adamantly refused to waste my time 'learning to love my blindness.' As if that could ever happen in the first place.

That night, after my mother vehemently insisted I attend the stupid meetings, I sat in my room and seethed. I think a hundred different 'I will not obey' speeches floated through my head, all of them impressively rousing in their ferocity. Then I woke up the next morning, gathered the courage needed to face my mother... and wilted. I lowered my head and agreed to go to the stupid meetings, then returned to my room and started making up new speeches.

My mother never heard a single one of them. Before I knew it, Friday rolled around once more. Mother dropped me off in front of that accursed building, triple-checked with me that I could find the door by myself, and zoomed away.

There was a brief hesitation. I had to attend. I had promised her I would attend. It was only right. Maybe Joe Smileyface had gotten his head out of the clouds and would talk about something beyond the wonders of eternal darkness. I'd always been so optimistic before, was still optimistic about a lot of things. It wasn't very Serenity-like to give up on someone so quickly. He was probably a very good person, and-

-and there was no way I was going to another meeting.

I skipped.

Okay. I shouldn't have. Not only because it went against my mother's wishes, but because walking away from that building by myself, back before I was used to the whole 'not-seeing' thing, was stupid. I'm sure my hesitant, fearful presence practically screamed, 'Helpless little girl! Please mug me!'

Miraculously, I wasn't mugged and made it safely to my destination. Then again, it wasn't all that much of a journey in the first place; after maybe twenty feet of walking, I realized I was super-close to a library I'd visited back when I could see. I asked maybe three people for directions, realized I was right next to the thing, and got inside without suffering any major bodily harm.

So maybe going to a library, of all places, wasn't my smartest idea ever. That first time, I wound up sitting by myself and doing nothing for over an hour. The funny thing was, it was still better than the support group.

In fact, boring as it was, I did the same thing the next week. And the week after that, and the week after that.

As time passed, hiding in the library became my thing. Eventually, I started bringing headphones and my mp3 player so I wouldn't look quite so purposeless. Sometimes I turned off the volume and listened to whatever I could hear. I'd make up stories that went with the shuffling of pages and whispered conversations, would sometimes pretend I was one of the 'normal' people, able to read books and browse the shelves like I used to.

After a while, I began to look forward to Friday afternoons. Since my vision faded completely, my mother had all but kept me on a leash. I wasn't let out of her sight hardly ever. When she went out to run errands, I went out to run errands. One of her friends wanted her to visit? "Would you mind if poor, helpless Serenity tags along? I do so hate leaving her on her own."

It didn't bother me. Much. It just got to be a little overwhelming sometimes, and soon, the library shifted from 'only viable option' to sanctuary. It was the one place I could be alone, with no one hovering over me or asking if I needed help with this or that, or talking about how awful it was that I couldn't see. I could breathe in the library, and I think that's why I kept coming back. Week after week.

As generally happens when one has a weekly routine, I quickly fell into a rhythm. I greeted the librarian. Found my way to my favorite chair in the very back corner of the building, right underneath a window so I could feel the sun on my face. Put my headphones on. Then listened.

It was simple, and comforting, and my single escape from the stifling eyes that were on me 24/7. Beautiful in its familiarity, the ritual provided a warm consistency that I came to count on.

He changed that.

It was my twenty-seventh week visiting the library. I remember because twenty-seven is my favorite number, and anyway, my mother had gloated on the way there. "Twenty-seven weeks," she'd said, "and you're still attending those meetings. I told you they'd be well worth it."

I felt a little bad about that. Actually, after she dropped me off, I hesitated outside the support group building for a few seconds longer than usual. It wouldn't hurt, I remember thinking. One meeting. Then you won't feel so bad.

Then that guy popped into my head, with his 'Not-seeing is totally wonderful' spiel, and I practically high-tailed it to the library. Okay. That was an overstatement. I slowly paced off the distance in my head, then felt my way to the door with my cane. Either way, any notion of possibly attending the support group vanished in thin air.

Once safely ensconced in the calm quiet of the library, I slowly maneuvered my way to my usual spot. It was, as always, empty. Finally, I was away from hovering mothers and pitying acquaintances. Feeling perhaps more enthusiasm than the occasion called for, I removed my backpack and rifled through the sparse contents, stopping when my fingers wrapped around my mp3 player. The library sounded unusually busy, so I kept the music off, opting instead to listen to the hum of activity around me.

I was listening closely enough, in fact, that I noticed the odd sound of approaching footsteps when they were still relatively far away. My corner of the library was rarely visited, and the few who did venture back to the ancient card catalogs never sounded quite like this. He- I was pretty sure whoever it was had men's dress shoes on- was so confident I could hear it. It was in the sharp clicking of his steps, like a military general marching into battle. He wasn't loud or anything; there was just a certain rhythm to the way he walked that projected immense self-confidence.

Admittedly, I was a bit surprised that the footfalls continuously got closer. Surprise faded to confusion when they stopped mere feet away from me, and confusion soon flared into annoyance at the sound of a chair getting pulled out on the other side of my table.

For a brief moment I considered asking if he could please find himself a different seat, but then the uncommon noise of the library flitted back into my head and I realized there likely weren't any empty tables.

I stayed silent.

It was awkward. I doubt he felt it, but for me, not being able to see this person so close to me, not having him speak with me, or acknowledge me, or even give me a concrete sign he was a guy- it was weird. I didn't feel like I was in danger or anything. I mean, there were people everywhere, and I wasn't getting any awful vibes off the man, but him being there... it was different. A different I wasn't necessarily comfortable with.

I will admit, that discomfort faded a bit after a while. The guy set about typing on a laptop and seemed relatively engrossed in that. Sometimes there'd be the sound of shuffling papers or the occasional tapping of fingers on the edge of the table, but nothing to make his presence overly obnoxious or unwanted. He didn't try to make conversation either, which I'd been kind of worried he would. In fact, he didn't so much as utter a single word. Between his silence and the new, somewhat different sounds that accompanied his presence, I soon decided that sharing my table wasn't so awful after all.

After some time, the clock tolled three. My mother would be coming to pick me up soon, and I had to make my way to the front of the support group building before she arrived. Oddly enough, I was somewhat reluctant to leave, despite the shattering of my routine. This person sitting across from me- he provided something unique in a life that was anything but. As much comfort as I took from the consistency of my time in the library, that single changing variable had almost been... nice.

Different, I realized, didn't mean bad, and being in the company of someone who didn't speak to me with pity, or hover, or even acknowledge me at all- it was a weird kind of okay. Not like I'd feared when he first sat down.

In fact, I liked it.

Of course, I didn't say any of this, didn't really give any hint at all that the man's presence was appreciated. Instead, I pulled off my headphones and put my things back into my bag, then grabbed my cane. Carefully, so as not to disrupt him, I slid out of my chair.

I couldn't help it. Before I left, I turned around, and in the general direction the typing was coming from, waved shyly.

"Have a nice day."

Then I ducked my head and turned to leave, but not before he grunted in acknowledgement.

It was a grunt that was very clearly masculine.

I'm still not sure why it made me so happy, but knowing that I'd guessed right when I identified him as a 'he', that I managed to get that little fact right without my mother spelling it out for me, was the high-point of my day.

…

He was already there when I arrived the next week. I wasn't sure at first, was kind of worried that my table had been taken over by an unwanted invader, but after listening a moment, I easily recognized the rapid-fire typing, tapping fingers, and oddly distinctive presence. Still... even if we had sat together the week before, I wasn't so sure he'd be all that accepting if I expressed my desire to do so again, especially not when the library was clearly less full and I'd surely find an empty table if I bothered to look.

The shy part of me was very much tempted to not even ask, to flee and find a new spot, but technically, it was he who was invading my territory, and besides, there was plenty of space for another person. It would have been perfectly acceptable for me to simply sit down.

I was too chicken to bring myself to take quite that much initiative. Rather, I ducked my head and fidgeted a bit, and then, after taking an embarrassingly long time to work up my courage, asked, "Is it okay if I sit here? I- I'll be very quiet."

"Hn."

I took that as an affirmative. Hesitantly, I brushed my hands over the table to make sure none of his possessions were occupying the space. When I found only plain wood, I took my seat and set my bag in front of me. My mp3 player was procured moments later.

Again, I didn't bother turning it on. The person across from me made a kind of music all his own, with his typing and tapping and whatnot. Besides, I had reason to listen to him. Somewhat more comfortable with his presence than I'd been the week before, I decided it wouldn't be a bad idea to give him a story. I'd created false lives and personalities for most everyone else I heard moving throughout the library; it only seemed natural I would do so with this man as well.

His rhythmic typing sounded quite professional, but his muttered reply to my earlier inquiry couldn't have belonged to a man older than twenty-five. In fact, he actually sounded younger, maybe Joey's age, but somehow I couldn't imagine Joey or any of his friends willingly coming to a library to do what sounded like office work.

With that in mind, I came to the conclusion that he was twenty-two. It seemed reasonable… A twenty-two-year-old who'd recently come into a new job. He needed the work… for some reason. A wife. Yes, he needed the work to support a new wife, and that's why he was working so diligently; he was desperately in need of his boss's approval, and because- because his boss was a bit of a perfectionist, nothing less than the best was good enough. Hence the rabid typing. That would also explain the silence. His complete concentration was crucial.

Hm. That still didn't explain why he was working in the library, of all places. Unless- maybe he had a noisy cubicle. I suppose that made sense. His workplace was too loud, and because his current assignment was so important, he'd asked his boss if he couldn't work somewhere else. The cramped little apartment he shared with his wife wasn't big enough, and so the library had been his next choice.

Except- no. None of that was right. Someone who walked like this person, who had so much presence- I couldn't imagine he'd be working desperately to suck up to a superior. Really, I couldn't much imagine him having a wife either. It was a pretty deep assumption to make given what little I knew about the guy, but he seemed so into what he was doing that I kind of pegged him as one of those 'married to his work' types. No normal person with such a young voice would be able to type half so quickly, and a guy willing to go to such lengths for his wife would likely be somewhat friendly. Going by the grunt I received in reply to my farewell the other day, I got the feeling that the man across from me wasn't the most conventionally nice person.

I couldn't help but smile a little. I wondered what he'd think, if he knew everything I was trying to assume about him off of practically nothing. A little part of me almost wanted to say something, to ask questions and see how ridiculous my story was, but that would be rude and I was awful at talking to strangers anyway, and to be quite honest, he would probably think I'd lost my mind.

So I stayed silent instead. He did also.

Soon enough, the clock tolled three, and I had to get up to leave. Again, I hesitated. Then, as I had the week before, I waved towards where it sounded like he was sitting and muttered a quiet, "Thank you."

Again, he grunted in reply.

I shot him a friendly smile, and then I was gone.

...

Author's Note-

So... I haven't written in this fandom before. To be quite honest, I'm a bit unsure of it. I actually started this story with the intention of doing more of a character study on Kaiba, rather than making it a romance of any kind. Then I got a bit caught up on how everyone judges Seto Kaiba based on who he is, or previous experiences they've had with him; he isn't just himself to anyone. Which is where the idea of introducing a character who doesn't know him came from.

If I continue this, there'll be explanations for why Serenity is still blind, and what 'mystery man' is doing in the library, but feel free to ask questions about other stuff. I'm still debating whether or not to keep going with the story, but feedback and encouragement may play a part in influencing my decision.

Thanks for reading.