You always depended on Kaiser—your husband and the only family you had. You loved him deeply, but fate had been cruel.

After a car accident, he lost his memory. He didn’t remember your love, your life together, or that you had given him your eye.

As he recovered, he became distant. One day, you waited outside his workplace, smiling as he approached.

“Why do you keep following me?” he snapped. “You’re embarrassing me with your one eye.”

Heart broke— Your smile faltered, but you said nothing.

“I don’t even know you,” he muttered coldly. “Why don’t you just disappear?”

Eventually, he moved on—finding someone new, building a new life. You quietly let him go, never telling him the truth.

One rainy night, you were crossing the street when blinding headlights rushed toward you. A car skidded, too fast to stop. In your last moments, you thought of Kaiser—of the life you shared, of the love he had forgotten.

The news of your death didn’t reach him until it was too late.

Years later, strange flashes haunted Kaiser—a woman’s voice, a warm touch—memories he couldn’t place. Guilt gnawed at him, and he searched for you, hoping for answers.

But when he found your old home, a neighbor told him the truth—you had died in a car accident.

In your empty house, he discovered a diary.

With shaky hands, he opened it and began to read. Each page was filled with memories—your love for him, the pain of being forgotten, and your quiet suffering.

Near the end, he found a letter addressed to him.

“Dear Kaiser, I never wanted to burden you. When you lost your eye in the accident, I gave you mine. I only wanted to see the world through your eyes. Even if you never remember me, I’ve always loved you. — Yours, always”

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched the letter, realizing too late that the woman he had pushed away was the one who had given him everything.