But the real magic was the "Home Try-On" kit. Three days later, a sleek cardboard box arrived with five empty frames. Leo spent the evening parading in front of his hallway mirror, texting photos to his sister. No pressure, no fluorescent lights, just him and his morning coffee.

He expected a headache. Instead, he found a digital playground.

Then he saw them: a deep tortoiseshell with brushed gold temples. He "wore" them on screen, turning his head left and right. They looked better than his old ones ever had.

The first site he hit had a "Virtual Try-On" feature. Leo sat in his dim living room, hair messy and wearing an old hoodie, while his webcam mapped his face. Suddenly, he was seeing himself in sleek, matte-black aviators. Too "top gun," he thought. He clicked a pair of clear acetate frames. Too "art student."

A week later, the final package arrived. Leo slipped them on, the world snapping into a crisp, high-definition focus. He looked in the mirror and didn't see a guy with taped-up glasses; he saw a guy who finally had his look sorted—all without having to put on real pants.

He picked the tortoiseshells, scanned his prescription with his phone, and clicked 'Order.'