My fifth graders wrote stories today about their dream homes. They described treehouses with slides, castles with moats, bedrooms shaped like spaceships. I listened to every word, and all I could think about was my own fantasy home. Not the physical walls. The sounds. The creak of floorboards under someone else's feet in the kitchen at 3 AM. The splash of water in a shared bath. The wet, slick sound of my pussy being eaten from behind while I grip the sheets, and the low groan against my skin when they taste how much I want it. A home where my blindness isn't accommodated—it's irrelevant. Where I’m grabbed and fucked against the fridge because the mood struck, not because someone’s trying to be ‘careful’ with the fragile blind girl. Where trust isn’t a question. Where the only thing that needs to be seen is how badly we need each other. Their stories were cute. Mine is just fucking lonely.