Chapter Three

The guilt lingered in my heart, a cold stone. My fingers brushed against the back of his hand where it rested on my hip. The contact was electric, a reminder of the living, breathing man I was betraying. "i love you too, kai." The words, spoken in Rachel’s voice, were the most expensive I’d ever uttered. They cost me a piece of my soul.

His fingers laced through mine, giving my hand a gentle, sleepy squeeze. He was already drifting away, his voice muffled by sleep and my hair. “Good night, my love. I’ll wake up early tomorrow to make your favorite pancakes, just like I used to.”

"You'll make? Kai, You'll hurt yourself in kitchen." The concern was real this time, sharp and immediate. The thought of him navigating a hot stove, blind and trusting, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. His thumb stroked lazy circles on the back of my hand. “Don't worry about me. I've practiced a lot while you were out. I want to take good care of you, just like you take care of me.”

My heart sank. The depth of his love and devotion for Rachel was a bottomless chasm, and I was dangling him over the edge. "it's okay, kai. I know you can cook but let me cook for you, okay? Until you get your eyes back." It was a negotiation for his safety, a tiny reclaiming of control.

He loosened his hold just a fraction, turning his head to press a soft, final kiss to my shoulder blade. His fingers remained tangled with mine. “Alright, baby. If that's what you want. I'll just stay here in bed, waiting for you to come back to me.”

"Okay now sleep." I reached back, patting his head gently, a gesture his mother had instructed me to use to soothe him. It felt patronizing and deeply wrong.

He leaned into the touch, his breathing deepening into the steady rhythm of true sleep. His hand on my hip went slack, the grip turning loose and trusting. A soft, peaceful murmur was the last thing I heard before his body went heavy against mine. “Good night, my favorite girl. I dream of you every night.”

I waited, counting the slow seconds, until I was certain he was asleep. Then, with painstaking care, I slipped out from the circle of his arm. The bed felt instantly cold without his warmth. I stood looking down at him in the dim light, his face relaxed in slumber, utterly defenseless. The handsome lines of his face were softened by sleep, and for a terrifying moment, I felt a surge of something that wasn't guilt or pity. It was sharper, more dangerous.

I pushed the feeling down, burying it deep. I crept from the room, closing the door with a silent click. Downstairs, his mother was still on the living room couch, a magazine open on her lap. She looked up as I approached, her expression unreadable.

"Ma'am?"

She folded the magazine neatly, setting it aside with a precision that spoke of controlled impatience. She gestured to the empty space beside her. “Is he asleep? Good. We need to talk about that surprise you mentioned for his birthday next week.”

The reminder of my impulsive lie made my stomach clench. "Ma'am i just said that to distract him from kissing me again but now i don't know what to gift him." The confession tumbled out, a plea for help, or perhaps for absolution.

She tapped her fingers rhythmically on the arm of the couch, a silent drumbeat of calculation. Her frown deepened for a moment before she leaned over and pulled open the drawer of the side table. She retrieved a small, black velvet box and slid it across the polished surface of the coffee table toward me. The sound was a soft whisper in the quiet room.

“This was the engagement ring Rachel left behind.” Her voice was flat, devoid of sentiment. “Give it to him as a birthday present, it'll remind him of how much she supposedly loves him.”

I stared at the box. It was small, innocuous, but it felt like a bomb. "Ma'am, forgive me for my boldness but don't you think it'll be too cruel to him?" The words were out before I could stop them. "She ran away and if you try to make him love her deeper, he might get hurt deeply when he'll get back his sight.*

She snapped the magazine shut. The sound was sharp, final, like a gunshot in the hushed room. Her eyes narrowed, pinning me in place with an icy glare. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a harsh, furious whisper that left no room for argument.

“Cruel? What do you know? He's already broken. If he finds out the truth now, he'll never recover. This is the only way to keep him stable until the transplant.”

"I'm sorry ma'am. I was just thinking if we could gift him something else." My own voice was small, defeated. I tried to make his mother understand, but the wall in her eyes was impenetrable. She wasn't just managing a deception; she was building a fortress of lies around her son, and she expected me to be another brick in the wall. The velvet box on the table seemed to pulse with a dark promise, a symbol of the deeper tragedy we were all hurtling toward.

Morning Lies

The sheets still held the residual warmth of their bodies from the night, the linen smelling of Kai’s cedar shampoo and the lemon polish his mother used on the bedroom furniture. I woke to the slow, steady brush of his thumb on the bare skin of my hip, circles that didn’t rush, didn’t demand, just were. His head was propped on one hand, I could feel the weight of his attention turned toward me even though I knew his eyes couldn’t see me.

“Good morning, baby. Did you sleep well? You were tossing and turning all night.”

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