The world ended when I lost my vision.

I've always been a visual person--- I loved looking at the skies when they were dusted with colors of pink, purple, oranges and blues when sunset comes; I loved traveling, looking at the sparkling blue of the ocean and seas, reflecting the bright sunlight like makeshift diamonds. I loved looking at the raindrops when they roll down the green leaves, leaving them glistening in its wake; I loved looking at freshly fallen snow and seeing the world surrounded with pure white.

But those days are now beyond my grasp.

When mother asks me if I'm okay, voice troubled and her hands fluttering over my face, pausing for an indiscernible moment over my eyes, I just smile. 

Sometimes I think it's a blessing to not see mother's face; that way I won't get to see how she cries, how her lips tremble and how much she has to control herself to keep the tears at bay, because that bright future she once saw for me is now dimmed with darkness.

Like how darkness has dimmed my sight.







Father blames himself for my predicament. 

Sometimes I'd hear him muttering if only if only under his breath, voice pained and full of regrets, like he'd do anything to change the course of time so just I could be spared this fate.

Sometimes, though, when the guilt and the burden and the sorrow are too strong father would hold me in his arms tightly and repeats I'm sorry brokenly, like every repetition would assuage his anguish. His tears would fall and dampen my shoulder, and even if my eyes have lost their vision they have not lost the power to shed tears.



 

Sometimes I have nightmares. I hear the screeching tires and my mother screaming and father yelling. Hands drag me off roughly away from the burning stench of the car's remains but there's a sharp burst of sudden, bright hot pain that sends me screaming in agony.

Fragments of broken glass enter my eyes like wayward projectiles, lodging deep into my eyeballs. I scream and taste blood, and with dim horror I realize it's the blood leaking from my eyes.

I always wake up screaming.






"Your son is lucky." I heard the doctor say as soon as I wake in the hospital after the incident, blind and unseeing. "Despite his being afflicted with ocular trauma, he escaped the accident relatively unscathed."

I bite my lip, holding back the retort that almost slips from my mouth. I hear my mother stifle a sob and I tighten my fist around the sheets pooling at my waist.

Despairing has no use. There's nothing I can do.

I am blind.






One day, mother and father decide to bring me to a therapy session. 

So that you could learn how to cope up without your sight, she explained, combing my hair with her fingers. I just nod, grasping in mid-air to look for her hand and she holds mine, squeezing it tightly in reassurance.

I know they did it to help me, but sometimes I wonder if they did it to help themselves too, because for a few moments they'll be able to forget about their blind son who couldn't do anything.

So they'll be able forget about their son who is now their liability.






I wasn't receptive.

My first therapist was an old woman. She had a thin, wispy voice that made me think she could be blown away at the slightest provocation. 

She asked for my name and I told her, but in the span of a few minutes she had forgotten, crooning xiaolu in my ear as she patted my head.

She didn't ask me to tell my story, and that was okay; I didn't want to say it either. She was content with my presence by her side.

I guess she was lonely.





So was I.






Jiyoung was the old woman's name.

I stayed with her for quite a while. Every day she'll tell me she was knitting something for me, and it was going to be a surprise. I just smile and thank her for her efforts. 

Sometimes she'd take my thin hands into her knobbly ones and she'd press them against her face, let me feel her battle wounds, her scars, and her laugh lines, brought about by her pain and experience and life.

"You'll be fine, Lu Han." she says one day, saying my name for the first time in weeks. "You'll be fine."

I didn't know what to tell her, so I just kept quiet, let my silence answer her.


 

After a few weeks, she died. Another therapist comes in to tell me that she died with a smile on her face with my name on her lips.

"She must have loved you very much."  The therapist says, voice thick with sorrow. 

I shrug.

"Her son had a genetic disorder," he continues. "I don't really know what it was because it was all in medical terms which I don't really understand---- anyway, the point is, her son died before she did, and maybe that was the one thing which broke her."

"After all, no mother would want to see her son die before she does."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, grip tight on the chair which I was sitting. She was another faceless figure; a person who could easily fade from my memory because there was nothing to hold unto--nothing except for her thin voice and knobbly fingers.

"I felt like you needed to know."

And that was that.






Sometimes I dream of brief flashes of light that fade into obscurity as soon as I wake.

I pretend it's her smile.




 

Jaemin was the therapist with too much success on his hands and consequently, a too big ego.

When I first heard his voice, it was full of arrogance and pride. He told me of the countless people he helped, dropping names here and there, as if he's waiting for me to react with awe and admiration.

I disliked him immediately. 

He immediately tried to ingrained himself in my life, appearing almost every day and clinging to me like a leech, yapping away in my ear as I feel my way through my room---the one that's given to me as my home during my stay in the facility.

I hated the place, but not as much as I hated Jaemin. I just nod and nod in our counseling sessions and fabricated lies after lies, and he soaked them all up. It's almost funny how gullible he is. Except it's not.






One day, I just ignored him. It was tiring trying to pretend you're okay when you're not, and I've had enough. 

He tries shaking me, speaking loudly as if I'm hard of hearing, but I purse my lips and turn away.





It is enough of a rejection. He immediately flares up in anger, telling me I'm the worst patient he ever had, and that I wasn't going to get better because I'm like this.


Closed. Distant.


I continue ignoring him and he huffs irately before stalking towards the door and slamming it shut behind him.

He's pitiable, but I guess, so am I.






Still, He was right though. Who was I going to delude? There's no future left for me.



 

Mother and Father visit me at times.

Sometimes I wake up to her voice crooning a lullaby, hand my hair in movements that leave me calm and content and often, struck with desperation and longing to see her face.

Sometimes, I'd feels someone settle  on the side of my small bed and I know it's father . He would often let just mother speak, preferring to convey what he felt in actions, and they often spoke in volumes. 

"The therapists say you're getting better, Lu Han." mother says, and I'm almost tempted to say no, they’re all lying but she's happy, and I’m loathe to take away that happiness.

I just nod awkwardly, hands clasped in front of me.

They'd stay until visiting hours are over, leaving with a kiss from my mother and a take care, son, from father.

They promise to come back, and they do, until I realize that the times they visited me were getting shorter and shorter.

I never complain. I listen to the clock tick, counting down the hours I have been waiting for them, and when the day is over I turn in my bed and sleep, and start the day once again.

Mother and Father visit me at times, until one day, they never came.


 

Lilianne was an alien, a foreigner. Her speech was too soft for the harsh guttural Korean I was accustomed to, and for the days that followed after I met her, I often wondered why she was far away from home, wherever it was.

Often, I hear her cry. Her sobs would be heart wrenching, like she could barely breathe, and I had to stop myself from asking why she was even here, with me, in the first place.

She was useless in this profession, because she could barely even help herself, let alone other people. 

Still, one day though, she had clutched my arm. "You're lucky you're still here." she rasps.

I wondered what she meant by that.



 

Less than a month in her supposed care, she finally told me the truth. 

"I'm an American." she whispers out of the blue, after she had cried her heart out for reasons unbeknownst to me.

"In the year of 2005, my husband died. He left me alone with the children. Joa--" her voice starts cracking as she speaks. "Joanne and Matthew."

I just nod, curiosity tugging at me.

"We left the country for a change of pace. I felt that the children needed someplace where they could spend time without remembering their father's death and after a long while, I decided on coming here."

"I thought we could start anew, the children and I. "she laughs, harsh and mocking and raw. "But no, bad luck had to follow me. Matthew was diagnosed with a terminal disease, and he only had a few years to live."

"How unlucky am I?" she asks, tipping her head back and laughing uproariously. "Three years into my stay here, my daughter died, in a traffic accident. In the same year, my son died."

She grips his arm tight, voice already shaking with effort to quell her tears. "You are lucky you are still alive."






I don't bother telling her I'm not alive anymore. 

I simply exist.








It comes as no surprise when I'm shuffled into another volunteer's schedule. I don't bother asking questions; it's not like I needed answers, anyway. 

I met another therapist, Jongin, almost a year into my stay at the facility.

He'll be able to help you, the matron told me, leading me to the place where he was waiting. I just nod in reply and smile. One more person burdened with me wouldn't make much of a difference.

Once I get there, I'm left sitting in silence, but I know Jongin is here. I can feel eyes on me, like he's perusing me.

I know you're there, I tell him, and he laughs. His laughter is nice and deep, I notice keenly, hearing strong to compensate for the loss of vision.

Where, he asks, and I stand, intending to come to him. But I hesitate.

What's wrong? He asks, when he sees me pause in my movements.

I can't see, I snap at him, angry that he's mocking me for my disability.

There's the odd beat of silence before he says,

"Are you going to let that stop you?"

His statement shuts me up, giving me determination. I walk, taking small steps, careful in case I bump into objects, but there is no hindrance in my path. I search for the direction of the voice, and a few steps into it I stumble---

But I fall into warmth.


 

Jongin spent a lot of time with me, just like everyone else had done.

"Don't bother," I told him the fourth time he came around. He kept quiet and I waited for him to leave.

But he doesn't.

"Why aren't you leaving?" I ask, turning my head to where I think he was. Old habits were hard to break, and my body was still accustomed to looking at people straight in the eyes when conversing.

"Oh! You were telling me to leave?" he asks, dumbfounded, and I snort.

"I can't." he replies honestly, and I could hear him shifting restlessly beside me. I could almost imagine him twiddling his thumbs together in a perfect picture of discomfort.

"And why not?"

He coughs, mumbling under his breath.

"I can't hear you," I snap, and he springs up from beside me, rocking the bed with his abrupt movement, shocked at the loudness of my voice.

"I made a promise." he tells me, small and almost unsure, except that I don't think it's the complete truth.

"Suit yourself." I reply, twisting away from him. 



 

Jongin didn't like talking.

I realized it days after meeting him. He was quiet, almost as if talking was unnecessary unless it was for something important. 

There were days when he would just sit beside me, letting the silence permeate the air.

It was almost pleasant.



 

Sometimes, I hated the silence.

So once, I attempted to crawl out of my skin, venturing out of my comfort zone.

"Tell me about the color of the sky." I tell him, and I feel him sit up properly, back ramrod straight beside me.

Jongin is quiet for a few more moments, and I count the seconds of his breathing.

"The sky is blue." he says. "It is clear, with a few clouds rolling lazily in the skies. Birds fly through the air, as if wishing they could fly to the sun, while the sun’s radiance shines upon the earth..."

I hear a smile creeping into his voice.


 

"There is thunder," he tells me once, as I listened to the sounds of rain pelting the window of the hallway.

I nod.

"Take me outside." I ask, and he complies, pulling me with my hand grasped in his, warmth curling in my body.

Unconsciously I lean closer, eager to find the source of warmth, until we're walking side by side.

He doesn't let go of my hand.

I don't let go, either.


 

Once we're outside, I toe off my shoes, stepping on the wet grass. They bend under my feet, and I walk, stretching my arms wide and turning my face up the skies, letting rain hit my face.

Jongin merely watches me, sheltered from the rain.

I can’t see him, but I feel his gaze running through me, intense and electric.

"Come here, Jongin." I ask, turning in his general direction and stretching my arm.

He complies, meeting me under the rain and I smile at him.

I can almost feel the surprise running through his skin, but it fades away after a few moments and he just stands beside me, close enough to touch.

I ignore the temptation to pull him closer to me, to feel his heat radiating over the surface of his skin.

I continue smiling, hearing the crack of thunder booming across the skies.

For once, I'm happy.





 

He continued taking me out on small trips after that, now knowing that I loved to be outside, rain, sun or snow.

It was a nice gesture, and I appreciated it a lot. It made me happier, more agreeable.

So once, as he handed me something he'd bought for me, I clasped my hands on his, trapping his hand between mine, saying,

"Thank you."

And he’s surprised, I know. I’ve never been one for kind and gracious words since my accident, but I felt that he had earned it, given that he had stuck with me through the months.

I’m past disbelief, past the anger, past the denial. I felt like I lived a whole new life in the facility, but I’m happy.

I realize that I’ve learned to forget that I’m blind, because here, with Jongin, he doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass. He treats me like a normal person, and I realize it’s the one thing I wanted all along.

For things not to change.

But they do.

Things changed.

I’ve changed.

I feel Jongin come close, until our sides are touching. He is quiet, but it is no surprise to me.

I smile idly, waiting for him, and true enough, after a few moments, he says, so softly, almost a whisper,

"...you're welcome."

I curl our fingers together.

Maybe change is not so bad after all.

 

Jongin was shy, I realized. His words tumbled awkwardly sometimes, like he didn't know how to say things, and sometimes his words rushed out like he was in a hurry to expel all thought before it’s lost to him.

He was nervous with meeting people for the first time, and I realize it was only bravado that covered his mask of awkwardness when we first met.

"What are you doing in a facility like this if you're scared or nervous about meeting people?" I ask.

"I made a promise." he says again, and while curiosity lances through me, I don't force the words out of him.


 

"Lu Han?" Jongin asked.

I turn from the window, sightless eyes turning to him.

"Are you..." he starts, but he coughs awkwardly, unsure.  "Are you... Okay with me?"

I crane my head, confused, so he tries again.

"Are you...happy with me as your therapist? Sometimes other patients didn't like me, or I wouldn't be able to help them deal with their problems, and sometimes I make things worse, and---"

He's rambling, I realize, the well of his insecurity open to me. Fully turning around, I pat my way until I feel his broad shoulders under the palm of my hands.

"Thank you, Jongin." I say as genuinely as I could, smiling.

He'd helped me in his silence, in his actions more than in words, in his awkwardness, realer than the empty words of the other therapists who had tried to help me, more substance than the people who made me listen to their problems instead of them listening to me.

I suddenly laugh. "How must we look to other people, like this? The therapist and his patient, or is it the other way around?"

He draws away, almost affronted, but I pull him closer, until my arms are enclosed around him.

"I don't mind. Let me try to help you too, Jongin."

He curls his around me in response, and time stands still.



 

Once, in the midst of waking and sleeping, I feel fingers threading through my hair.

I sigh, curling closer to the caress, knowing it was only Jongin. He touches my hand, running his fingers up my arm, until they find the plane of my check, rubbing his thumb over my skin in slow, torturous circles.

I try not to show how it affects me; I will my body to stay in its relaxed state, despite the sudden thrumming of my blood.

His fingers trace the line of my nose, and his thumb catches on my bottom lip. I feel the intensity of his stare even as I feign sleep.

My body quivers at the sudden heat running through my body, and I open my eyes.

At once I feel the mortification running through him and he flinches away.

"I'm sorry." he says hurriedly, but I scramble for any purchase, not wanting him to slip away.

I find his neck, and I curl my hand behind, drawing closer to him, until I feel his breath wash over my face.

"Don't be." I whisper.

I kiss him.




 

Many, many months later, after moments have solidified and had become days, weeks and months, Jongin tells me of his sister.

She was very pretty, he'd started, running his fingers through my hair.

She loved the world, just like you. She'd run with bare feet on grasses in parks and made angels on the snow; she'd create sandcastles in the beaches and paint things when she found them beautiful.

She was a budding artist, and we were so proud of her. But she got into an accident which made her lose her eyesight and she immediately became broken, because what use was she to the world if she can't see?

My eyes fill with tears because it was exactly how I felt.

She would cry for hours on end, lamenting her fate and making her eyes be rimmed with red; she'd snap at everyone who tried to console her.

Jongin pauses, throat dry. I look for his hand and squeeze it in support.

Oh, she tried to be better; she'd enlist me to help her, told me to stand somewhere and to keep speaking so she'll be able to find me, and she would be successful. She'd yell in happiness and string me around and I would laugh with her.

But she'd lost the ability to paint without her vision. I couldn't help her with that. She'd hold a brush and her palette and it would hover over the canvas for a long while, because she's not certain on what she's doing anymore.

She was content when she realized could live without her vision, but she wasn't happy because she couldn't do her passion.

And I just watched her break, because I felt so helpless, like I couldn't do anything for her.

I loved her so much and all I did was watch her deteriorate into madness.

Once, in her lucid interval, she said, I'm sorry.

The next day, she died.

Jongin curls our fingers together. 

I vowed not to just watch. I want to help. I want to give my sister the second chance she never had.

Jongin folds me in his embrace. So live, Lu Han. Find a reason to live.







That reason became Jongin. 

On rare days I'd curl into a ball and let myself be crushed with grief and sorrow for my loss, but Jongin would be there, holding me in his arms and rocking me to safety, letting me feel that even if all is not right with the world, he was there to help me every step of the way.

On most days though, we'd curl up in bed together, arms around each other, warm, safe and secure; I  would feel Jongin's body  with my hands, running my hand through every dip and plane and memorizing the contours of his body; I'd  rest my head on Jongin's chest and listen to his heartbeat.

Jongin would kiss my forehead and press our palms together, would laugh and smile against my lips as we kiss, would pepper my face with kisses until I could feel the imprint of his lips.

But most of all, Jongin would grab my fingers and he'd speak against them, letting me feel the curve and shape of his lips as he articulates the words until my fingers would burn with familiarity and memory.

I love you.

So maybe I have lost my vision, but I have not yet lost the ability to see the beauty of the world.

Thank you for reading~

I hope its not too bad TT

/slinks away