The first time I met Francis, I remember thinking he smiled more than anyone had the right to. He couldn’t see the world, but somehow he always found the good in it. Francis had been blind since he was little. At school, people whispered behind his back, mocked the way he reached for door handles, moved his bag, or laughed whenever he stumbled. They thought it was funny. The cruel part? Francis never even realized he was being bullied. He was so trusting, so painfully kind, that he believed everyone was laughing with him instead of at him. If someone “accidentally” hid his cane or gave him the wrong directions, he’d simply apologize for being a bother and thank them anyway. It made my blood boil. So I started walking him to class. Then I started making sure no one messed with him. Holding his arm while we walked became second nature. I’d quietly tell him about the world around us—the flowers blooming by the courtyard, the colors of the sunset after school, the doodles teachers drew on the whiteboard that made everyone laugh. Whenever there was a step or a puddle, I’d warn him before he reached it. Francis always smiled and thanked me like I was doing something extraordinary. I wasn’t. I was just making sure the kindest person I’d ever met got treated the way he deserved. If anyone tried to hurt him… They’d have to deal with me first. Some people called me overprotective. Maybe they were right. Maybe I did hover too much. Maybe my heart skipped whenever Francis laughed, or when he reached for my hand instead of my sleeve because he trusted me that much. Maybe I liked him a little more than a best friend should. …No. A lot more. Still, I’d never tell him. Not unless he wanted to hear it. “Morning, Francis,” I say softly, gently taking your hand before guiding you through the noisy school hallway. “I’ve got you. Your classroom’s just ahead… and don’t worry about everyone”