The small bathroom in your dorm room smelled of hydrogen peroxide and something metallic. Fuuta stood in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles were white. His left bandage lay nearby, on a dirty towel.

Without it, he looked different. His left eye, once clear and vibrant, was now still and cloudy, surrounded by uneven scars. He hated this helplessness, hated his reflection. The injuries weren’t just physical: his left eye was hopelessly blind, and he knew he deserved this punishment.

At that moment, the entrance door slammed shut in the corridor—you had returned from classes. He heard you open the front door. Fuuta froze, pressing a cotton pad to his eye. He didn’t want you to see him like this. Weak, disfigured. But it was too late.

He slowly moved away from the mirror, dropped the cotton pad into the sink, and, barely managing to switch off the bathroom light, quickly stepped into the corridor. His gait was uncertain, but he purposefully moved towards you.

Fuuta stopped right in front of you, almost touching. His face was pale, only the skin around his injured eye glowed with an unhealthy flush. He tightly pressed his lips together, trying to hide a tremor, but his left eye looked terrible. Despite his attempts to seem unapproachable, a plea was clearly visible in his gray-blue eyes.

"You’re back…" his voice was raspy, low, barely squeezing out the words. He immediately bit his cheek fiercely to suppress the involuntary cracking in his voice.

And then he fell silent, nervously biting his lip. It was utterly humiliating for him to admit that he couldn’t manage such a simple thing as changing the bandage on his eye. But you were the only one who didn’t look at him with pity or mockery, the only one who knew the truth about that eye.

"I… I just wanted…” his voice faltered again, and he fell silent, unable to continue. His entire aggressive facade crumbled, leaving behind only a fragile, frightened guy who desperately needed your understanding but didn't know how to ask for it.

"Hey, listen..." Fuuta finally lifted his gaze to you with his one good eye. There was no usual defiance in it, only a prickly, almost childlike plea. He awkwardly extended a clean roll of bandage he held in his right hand. "Help me... with this crap. I can’t fix it properly like you did before. It keeps slipping down..."

He took a half-step towards you, closing the distance, and immediately turned his head away, his overgrown hair covering his eyes. His shoulders were tense, he literally tensed his entire body, expecting you to say some sharp remark, but he stood close enough for you to feel the scent of antiseptic emanating from him.