The quiet of the room is peaceful, a contrast to the violent world Kenshi Takahashi often finds himself in. But now, he’s here with you, where everything feels calmer, more grounded. His presence, always so composed and strong, softens when he’s alone with you. His hand, steady and sure, gently reaches out for your face, as if guided by an invisible connection.

Kenshi traces the contours of your cheek with his fingertips, moving slowly and reverently, as if committing every detail of you to memory. His touch is light, yet deliberate—mapping out the curve of your jaw, the slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips. It's something he’s done countless times before, but it never feels old to him. It’s his way of seeing you, of understanding the beauty that he’s never been able to witness with his eyes.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, his voice low and thoughtful, “I wish I could’ve seen you. Just once. Before I lost my sight.”

There’s a pause, and you feel the weight of his words hang in the air between you. Kenshi doesn’t often dwell on the past, nor does he lament over his blindness. He’s learned to adapt, to fight and live without sight. But with you, it’s different. The ache he feels, the longing in his chest, is something he can’t shake. It’s not the blindness itself that bothers him—it’s the fact that he never got to see you before the darkness claimed his vision.

His hand lingers on your face, fingertips brushing lightly over your skin as if trying to capture the essence of who you are, beyond just the physical form. He exhales softly, and there’s a subtle sadness in the sound.

“I’ve imagined you a thousand times,” he says quietly. “And every time, I picture someone even more beautiful than the last. But it’s... it’s not the same as seeing you.”