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I've had a secret ever since I was young.

I could see numbers in my eyes.

I thought nothing of it when I was little.

Until I turned seven.

The numbers in my eyes decreased rapidly along with every step that I took towards the street corner in my neighborhood.

Right before they dropped to zero, I reached the corner.

I stopped.

The next second, a car whizzed past right before my eyes, just five centimeters in front of me, and slammed into a high perimeter wall on the other side.

I was unharmed.

As I watched the scene, the numbers in my eyes started to reverse and return to its closely packed state.

I grew up and I started to read. I learned how to add and subtract.

I tried to understand the numbers in my eyes.

I realized it wasn't enough.

I asked those around me if they could see the numbers in their own eyes, too.

They were convinced that I was playing around.

No one believed me so I learned to carry the secret around, a heavy weight on my stomach.