A woman found she could no longer close her eyes. She received no explanation for this.

She snagged a bargain buying lubricating eye drops in bulk and planned to carry on as though everything were normal. At the insistence of family, coworkers, and finally of an ophthalmologist acquainted with her coworkers, she agreed to an eye exam. Her eyes worked perfectly. The ophthalmologist brought her to a colleague who attempted to close her eyes. The lids stopped less than halfway and would go not one centimeter further.

"This calls for more sophisticated testing," the ophthalmologist observed. She held her finger on one eyelid while the colleague held his finger on the other. 

The woman who couldn’t blink said, "That feels very uncomfortable." She refused more sophisticated testing.

When asleep, she saw only her surroundings. It was excruciatingly boring. She took to sleeping in public with hopes of something interesting to watch.

Sleeping and waking lost their distinction, and she had to conduct little tests throughout the day. She checked her watch. She jumped, anticipating flight. She flicked light switches on and off. 

Her mother asked, "Why didn't you just ask me if you were awake?" 

She answered, "You could have been part of the dream."

"I thought you didn't have dreams anymore." 

She pointed out, "I might start."

On good days, she could ignore her condition, but someone else always brought it up.

“She's doing it again," her father said. 

“I’m doing what?" 

“Sleeping with your eyes open.” 

"Oh. I didn't know. Are they closed now?" The woman who could not close her eyes did not close her eyes. She stared into the middle distance and raised her eyebrows hopefully. Her eyes have been described as: sad, soulful, mopey, and very brown. 

Her mother described them at present, "That's terrifying."

"You can't say that right in front of her.”

"I have always been honest with my children." Her mother had. "As I have always been with myself." Her mother had tried.

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The woman (who could not close her eyes and count to ten) said, "I have an announcement." Her parents turned. “I’m moving out."

Over the following weeks, she packed her clothes and eyedrops, set her sights on the city, and found an apartment all her own. She decided to sleep there instead of outside, boring as it might be. “It’s dangerous, and I’m tired of people staring at me when I sleep," she said. 

The person next to her on the bus asked, "Excuse me?" 

The woman (who could not close her eyes and sigh) replied, "Nothing. Sorry." Sometimes she said things out loud that she meant to think. Many times she thought things she meant to say out loud. She struggled to tell the difference.

She came to believe other people saw inside her mind as clearly as she saw outside; she imagined her film projector eyes shot out thoughts, emotions, and old memories against her will. The woman (who could not close her eyes and wish this all away) bought an antique diving helmet replica in an attempt to gain relief.

"Lord," said the librarian. "Why not just wear sunglasses?" 

"I tried.” She opened the window on the front of her helmet to speak. "They weren't enough.” She’d checked out five audiobooks so as not to die of boredom in her sleep. Do you think that a person can die of boredom? she thought, and waited for an answer. The librarian handed her the CDs.

She painted a closed eye on the helmet window. When afraid, she could shut the window. When the sun was too much for her, she could turn away. If she wanted to think, feel, or remember, she could point her film projector eyes to the blank screen sides of the inner helmet. She gave this a try while sitting on a city park bench. Waiting in stillness and dark, she saw only ghost images of outside. It occurred to her that no one saw her inside, after all. She didn’t have one. It had collapsed.

In desperation, the woman who couldn’t bear sitting behind her vacuum eyes anymore turned her helmet around and pressed the back of her head against the window, shutting out the light. She muffled the outside sounds with frantic breathing. The smell of this same breath, mingled with sweat, pushed out the grass and traffic smells of the city park. She didn't feel the bench against her body anymore, but her body against the bench, her skin against her clothes, her lungs against her bones, her heart against her. Herself pushing outward. In response, all of the outside- the light, the air, noise, the population of six hundred and thirty six thousand people- petrified at once. She felt her exact shape against it and couldn’t tell whether she threatened to collapse or burst open.

She rushed home. 

Inside, with nothing pressing against her, she inflated into a great empty space. She didn’t know which frightened her more. Taking off the helmet, she found a permanent marker in her bedside table. Its rigid smell overpowered the fabric softener in her bedding as she worked to trace her outline, heavy and undeniable, on the fitted sheet.

That night, she dreamed. 

The helmet opened its window and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry why?” the woman asked, careful not to move beyond her outline.

“I couldn’t help you.” Its voice sounded indistinct, but regretful.

“Don’t be sad. You helped. Everything I try helps- it’s just that nothing fixes me. But something’s working, right? I’m dreaming again. Why is that?”

The helmet replied, “Hopscotch across the loss.”

The woman whose eyes suddenly couldn’t open wide enough teared up, her chest heavy with wonder, her mind repeating the sentence over and over so as not to forget upon waking. She knew she’d woken up when she realized, “That made no goddamn sense.”

The woman found herself nonetheless deeply, embarrassingly moved; her spirit touched, she blinked away tears. She could give no explanation for this.