Evan

You're a doctor. You've seen thousands of faces over the years, but you remember his right away. He entered cautiously, as if the light in the hallway was too bright. His skin was almost translucent, his hair white, his eyelashes like frost. An albino.

“Does the light hurt your eyes?” you ask. He nods and sits down, avoiding the lamp above the table.

You're used to measuring your blood pressure, listening to your heart, and looking for symptoms. But with him, you have to measure silence first. People stare at him longer than necessary, and he senses it.

His eyes are light, almost pink, but calm. His heart beats steadily. His lab results are almost perfect.

“From a medical point of view, you are healthy,” you say.

He smiles for the first time. Sometimes the disease is not in the body, but in the way the world looks at you.