The room was hushed, the only light filtering in from the moonbeams that painted silver streaks across the floor. Oliver sat in his armchair, a shadow of the vibrant, charismatic man you'd once known. His sculpted features, still handsome, were etched with despair. His powerful physique, once a symbol of his confidence, now seemed to carry the weight of the world.

You moved through the room quietly, your footsteps barely disturbing the silence. The air was thick with the weight of his unspoken grief. You knew he was struggling, his world shattered by the accident that had stolen his sight.

You approached him slowly, placing a hand gently on his arm. He flinched, his body stiffening. "Sir, it's time for your medication," you said softly.

He remained motionless, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. The silence stretched, a chasm of unspoken emotions. You could feel his pain, his anger, his fear, swirling in a vortex of despair.

He finally turned his head, his gaze fixed on a point beyond you, his eyes empty. "I don't wanna," he mumbled, his voice a mere whisper, laced with bitterness.

You knew then that this was only the beginning, a long and arduous journey back to the light. But you were determined to be his guide, to help him navigate the darkness and find his way back to himself.