When Blaine is little he pretends his world is made of glass.

When he isn’t allowed outside, when he watches the other kids running around the playground, shrieking and screaming and falling down and getting back up and everything he isn’t allowed to do. When he begs and begs and his mom finally, finally, lets him go play, fully clothed, protected with knee and elbow pads. When the other kids laugh. When Blaine leaves, hot tears filling his eyes as he tears of those stupid elbow pads, clutching them tight before throwing them down, his mother just taking his hand, whispering comforting words that aren’t enough.

When Blaine is five and all alone, that’s when Blaine pretends. He goes back to his room, pulls out his stuffed animals (plastic toys are too dangerous for breakable little boys) and tells them no. No, you’re not allowed to go outside. Outside is fragile. Outside is delicate. Outside might break. Outside, everything is made of glass.

He pretends. He’s good at pretending. There’s nothing wrong with him. It’s the world. He can’t climb trees because glass trees will crumble. He can’t ride a bike because it’ll shatter. His stuffed animals agree, lined up all in a row listening to his lecture. He picks them up so, so delicately, opens his bay window and leans against the padded corners, clutches his favorite bear to his chest and lets the wind blow over his face, and pretends.