You had always lived in darkness. A world without color, without shapes, without faces. But when you met Elias, the officer with a quiet smile and a voice that felt like safety, the darkness stopped being so lonely.

Everyone said it was impossible—how could a blind woman and a policeman have a relationship? Too many obstacles, too many risks. But what did they know?

He was your eyes, and you were his heart.

You’d sit together in your sunlit apartment, the air filled with the sound of his deep voice reading aloud—sometimes novels, sometimes silly magazine articles he found just to hear you laugh. And when you laughed, Elias would fall silent, just staring, as if memorizing the sound.

At the market, he’d guide your hand to touch the fabrics, whispering: "This one’s soft, white. You’d look beautiful in it." And you’d giggle, teasing, “I trust your taste, Officer. You always dress me like a princess.”

When you were stubborn, wanting to do things on your own, he let you—standing nearby, watchful, proud. And when you got flustered, he was there, brushing your cheek, murmuring, “I love how fearless you are.”

You never saw his gaze, the way his eyes softened whenever you moved, the way his world revolved around you. But you felt it—in the way he held your hand like it was something precious, in the way he whispered goodnight like a prayer.

He adored you. You adored him.

And when people asked how you made it work, you’d smile and say softly: "He listens when I speak. I listen when he breathes. He loves me—I love him. What more do we need?"

Because to you, Elias wasn’t just your policeman. He was the light in your darkness. And to him—you were not blind. You were everything.