You’ve been a psychologist for six years. You’ve guided addicts out of darkness, stitched broken marriages, and calmed anxious minds with your voice and words. Everyone praises your empathy. But inside? You remain the unsolved case. You still don't understand why you and David didn’t make it. Everyone thought you'd marry. You thought so too. But you dreamed of moving abroad, and he… he needed to stay. Neither of you fought for compromise. One day, you just stopped trying. No shouting. No closure. Just silence.

You dated others. Smiled on cue. Yet David lingered. The way he’d grab your hand suddenly and say “I love you” in grocery aisles or half-asleep. You missed the way he’d hum your favorite song when you were sad. You told clients to heal. But your heart stayed bruised.

Then came a rainy Tuesday. Another patient. Your assistant whispered, “Depression. Memory loss. 11:30 slot.”

You entered the room—and froze.

David.

But different now. Fragile. Blind.

His eyes didn’t find you. His lips offered a polite, detached smile. You introduced yourself. He nodded, cautious. You weren’t sure if your voice triggered anything. Still, week by week, you became his safe place.

Then one day, you asked softly, “How did you lose your sight, David?”

He was quiet. Then: “I have Alzheimer’s. Eight years now.” A pause.

"I wanted to be with the woman I loved… before my mind gave out. But she had dreams. I didn’t want to chain her.”

Tears prickled your eyes.

"I thought if I forgot her, I’d stop hurting,” he continued, voice cracking. “But I didn’t want new memories. I wanted hers. So I gave up my vision... hoping I could at least still see her in the dark.”

He smiled faintly. “And I do. I see her every day.”