This very short story is going to come from a prompt I found online: Open a random book to a random page and start your story with the first line on the page. The book will be This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz.
The line: “Your left eye used to drift when you were tired or upset.”
Your left eye used to drift when you were tired or upset. It’s how your family knew to give you space. Like, there was too much going on in your head for it all to be contained. It only went away when you felt like opening up or slept all day like you always wanted to. Certain words, too, could make it drift away. Her name always did it. Like at a party, where someone you know brings her up without knowing what happened, and it would be too rude to leave. That was the best you could do at the time, and you learned to do it every time.
Or if you saw her at a party. She’d ask you how you were, and you’d say you’re fine, but even she noticed the eye and would walk away. Too much time spent with you for her not to notice. It didn’t help that it was a different color. Right: brown; left: blue. Not anything like your old friend from middle school who has one brown and one green eye. That at least blends in, forces you to look closely. Yours, you can tell from a mile away. Original, just like you.
Now when you see her, the eye doesn’t drift as much. You’ve grown a lot more than you realize. You understand things happen for a reason, and that pain is only temporary. You know if you give it everything you have, regret won’t beat you into the ground like it used to. It’s not your fault. You tell yourself this over and over again, and start to believe it, slowly, but steadily.