Amidst a city that never sleeps, two souls with evident troubles forge an unforeseen affinity. She carries the weight of scars that tell stories of pain, while he sees beauty where others look away. Under the night sky, their stories interlace, reve...
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16 | 06 | 2019
The first time Aaron described something to Iseul, it took her by surprise. She had assumed, like everyone else, that his blindness would keep him detached from the world's finer details. But as she sat on his roof one evening, watching the plants sway in the wind in the garden, she realized how wrong she was.
"They must be lilies," Aaron had said, his voice soft, as if the wind carried it for him. His head was slightly tilted toward the pots in front of him, though his eyes remained unfocused, as always.
Iseul stared at the flowers for a moment before replying, "How do you know?"
"I can smell them," he said simply. "They have this sweet scent, like something between honey and lemon. Not too overpowering. And the leaves... they rustle a certain way when the wind blows through them."
She had blinked at him then, astonished by how vividly he could understand what she saw without ever laying eyes on it. Aaron didn't just feel the world around him; he translated it into something more. He found details where others, like her, had grown numb.
27 | 06 | 2019
As the weeks passed, Iseul began paying closer attention to how Aaron described the world.
His descriptions weren't based on what others might tell him; they were entirely his own. He spoke about the warmth of the sunlight as it hit the back of his hand, the softness of a breeze when it caressed his face.
But it wasn't just nature he noticed. It was people, too. The way Aaron described people fascinated Iseul. He could talk about someone's presence without ever needing to see them.
"There's a nurse," he once said, referring to someone Iseul had barely noticed. "She walks like she's afraid of something. Her shoes barely make a sound. I don't think she wants to disturb anyone."
Iseul had only noticed a nurse in passing, just another face in her hospital's endless flow of personnel. But Aaron made her real. He painted the people around him with a kind of clarity that made Iseul see them anew. To Aaron, it wasn't about how someone looked; it was how they existed in the space around him, how they moved, how they made their presence known — or didn't.
It was this sensitivity, this deep understanding of the invisible, that drew her closer to him. It was through Aaron's descriptions that she began to feel truly seen, in a way no mirror or glance ever could.
01 | 06 | 2022
The night Aaron spoke about her, it left Iseul reeling.
"You always have this smell about you," Aaron had said, sitting with her under the moonlight, the roof creaking as usual beneath them.
Iseul had stiffened at that, unsure if she liked where this was going.
She was hyper-aware of the hospital scent that clung to her clothes, the sterilized air that never seemed to leave her skin.
"What kind of smell?" she asked, half-dreading his response.
"Lavender," he said, and for a moment she relaxed, thinking it was just a vague comment. But then he added, "And something else... like earth, right after it rains."
She had blinked at him, unsure of what to say. Aaron wasn't being poetic or trying to flatter her. He was simply stating what he sensed. To him, she wasn't just the girl sneaking out from the hospital. She wasn't the girl with the acid scars who avoided mirrors. She was something far more than that.
"The way you move," Aaron had continued, his brow furrowing as he tried to explain, "It's deliberate, but... hesitant. Like you're testing the ground every time you take a step."
She had wanted to cry then, though she wasn't sure why.
His words struck her somewhere deep, in a place she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge in a long time. He didn't just describe her movements or her scent — he described the space she occupied, how she fit into the world around them, how she moved through it with all her broken parts still intact.
It was in those moments — the quiet, unspoken ones where Aaron spoke in fragments as if revealing little pieces of her to herself — that Iseul began to realize her feelings. Not because he praised her or made her feel beautiful, but because he saw her in a way no one else did.
It was always like that. Aaron had a way of noticing the smallest details, the things that went unnoticed by others, including Iseul herself. And in that noticing, in the way he talked about the world and the people in it, Iseul found herself falling for him — slowly, inevitably.
But it wasn't in the grand gestures or the romanticized words. It was in the way he made her feel like she existed, truly existed, outside of her scars and her past.
It was in the way he made the world feel larger, more alive, even without his sight.
And it was in the way he described her — not as someone damaged or lost, but as someone real, someone whole. Even when she couldn't see it herself.
09 | 06 | 2022
These little moments filled Iseul's mind now, replaying over and over. The rooftop visits, the plants, the way he talked about her without ever seeing her face. They were everything, and yet they were never enough.
That was why it hurt so much when he said it wasn't enough for him. When he said she couldn't fix what he felt inside, couldn't fill the gaps his blindness left.
Because for her, he had already done that. He had already made her feel seen.
