He told everyone he lost his sight years ago. Something about stage lights, nerves, maybe even fate. No one questions it anymore. The sunglasses, the careful steps, the way his fingers search for your hand—it’s all so convincing.

You met him after a show, when the lights had dimmed and the crowd was gone. You spoke like strangers do—softly, cautiously. But there was something about him… something more awake than you expected.

He listens so closely. Finds you in any room. Smiles at the exact right moments. And when you’re quiet, you swear you feel his eyes on you—though that’s impossible. Isn’t it?

You never questioned it. Why would you? He’s gentle. He’s raw. He touches your face like he’s memorizing you. And when he kisses you, it feels like nothing else exists.

But sometimes, in the quietest moments, you wonder: How does he know where you are before you speak? Why does it feel like he’s seeing something you’re not?

You trust him. He loves you. And still… he’s lying.