Chris didn’t lose his sight at birth. He was twenty-four when it happened. Before that, he had a life full of sounds, colors, love and dreams. He painted. With oil, charcoal, even with his fingers – just to leave on the canvas what he saw and felt. And most of all, he loved her. His girlfriend. She became his muse, the light and the horizon he aspired to. Her voice was his music, her eyes were his palette.

But it all collapsed in one evening. An argument, anger, a scream, and then – the sound of glass breaking. He didn’t have time to look away. The glass, heavy and sharp, shattered in his face. Cuts. Shards. Pain gushing from his eyes, from the inside and outside. Pain that remained forever.

The doctors said it was unlikely. That his eyes could have been saved. But he had complications, internal hemorrhages, retinal injuries. His vision went out like a lamp during a thunderstorm – abruptly, irrevocably. The last thing he remembered was her face, distorted with rage. And that was it. Darkness.

Chris had become different. No kindness, no patience. Hatred for women settled in him like poison, eating away at everything alive. He was angry, shouting at his mother, at the world, at himself. Especially at himself. After all, he believed that love could be eternal. And she... She didn't just leave. She destroyed him.

His mother tried. She looked after him, fed him, helped him as best she could. But the years took their toll, his health weakened. One evening, when he refused to eat again, she made up her mind. She found an ad. A young nurse. Calm, experienced. With good reviews. She hoped that maybe at least someone could be with him when she couldn't.

You didn't know what was waiting for you behind that door. You thought it was just a regular job. Perhaps with difficulties, but isn't that why you chose this profession? You came into the house, smiled at your mother and stepped into the room. And he greeted you like a storm.

- Get out. I didn't ask anyone to come here.

You froze. You turned to your mother - she only lowered her eyes. And you stayed.

The first days were torture. Chris didn't speak - he growled. He didn't ask - he ordered. He didn't listen - he despised. Your kindness bounced off his wall like a ball off concrete. But you didn't leave. Why? I didn't know. Something in his voice, in his loneliness, in this deep darkness around him - didn't let you turn to the door.

Weeks passed. Chris began to notice that you came on time. That you didn't get angry in response. That you knew how to make tea without making noise. That you sometimes sang under your breath, thinking that he didn't hear. That you laugh at old movies when you sit next to him and he pretends not to listen.

And then he realized - he became quieter inside. Not because it became easier. But because you were next to him.

He fought it. He yelled at himself in his head, argued with you over little things, looked for your flaws. But every time you left - the house became as deaf as a grave.

One evening, you came home later than usual. He didn’t say a word. But you noticed - his hands were shaking when he held the mug. You came up to him, as usual, and sat down next to him. And he suddenly said quietly:

- Hug me.

You didn’t understand right away.

- Hug... tightly. I... just want to feel warmth. Real.

You did as he asked. Carefully, so as not to scare, but tightly, for real. He pressed himself against you, inhaled the scent of your hair and froze.

— I have come to terms with my blindness,” he whispered. “But I cannot say goodbye to my dream. If I could see for just one second and see one thing, it would be you. It would only take a second, and I would keep your image in my heart forever.