Almost blind | Haobin

5| It's been years |5

"I... brought you some fruits and veggies... and a few sweets too," Ricky managed to say after a moment of silence. The words seemed to fall slowly from his mouth, filling the quiet space between them like pebbles dropped in a still pond. They sat across from each other at a small, round table, as if the distance could somehow bridge the chasm that had grown between them. Ricky's eyes moved over Hao's face, searching for something hidden, as though he might uncover his son's state without forcing the question. But the way they sat, stiff and uncertain, felt more like distant friends meeting after years apart-struggling to find common ground-than a father and son.

Hao glanced down, his fingers lightly gripping the small bag Ricky had given him. The worn paper crinkled under his touch, and he hesitated before opening it. Inside were strawberries, mangoes, carrots, and... candies. Hao's brow furrowed, his lips curling slightly in confusion. "You... never let me have sweets, dad," he murmured, suspicion coloring his tone. It felt like bait, like some kind of trick, Ricky might snatch back at any second.

"You haven't had any in... months. You can have them this time." Ricky sighed as if the answer was heavy, resting his hands gently in his lap. Hao simply nodded, the motion small and reserved, before setting the bag on the floor beside his feet. He paused, looking down, and finally spoke, his voice almost a whisper. "How are you... doing, dad?" It was an effort, a script he'd rehearsed at Taerae's urging, but his eyes stayed downcast, fixed on the scuffed tabletop rather than meeting his father's gaze. Hao was cerious too..but he didnt want to admit that. He kept his eyes down, it was as if he feared that even the briefest glance would reveal too much, that his father might see the weight he carried, the pain that had settled into his bones and grown there, like a scar he didn't want to expose.

Ricky's response was immediate. "Don't worry about me," he said, brushing the question away with a small, dismissive wave. "I'm doing fine." There was a lightness to his tone, but Hao felt it drift past him like a breath of air-meaningless and empty. He huffed softly, his lips pressing into a line. Of course, he'd say something like that. Yet before Hao could respond, Ricky had already shifted the conversation.

"I spoke with the doctor, and... we need to visit the ophthalmologist," he said, his voice softer now. "I'll take you out for the day, and afterward... we can spend some time together. It'll be... next Monday." Ricky's voice carried a warmth Hao hadn't heard in ages, as if he feared these words themselves might be too heavy, too sharp, might somehow wound his son further.

Hao noticed, with a familiar pang, how his father avoided the topic of himself. Since everything had changed, his father had grown distant, quieter, leaving his own thoughts like faint footprints in the sand-there, but quickly washed away.

Hao's gaze drifted to some random point on the table, his mind focusing only vaguely on the date. He nodded, marking it with little interest. There was nothing else on his calendar. And yet the thought of going to the ophthalmologist unsettled him, like a stone in his shoe he couldn't shake out. It wasn't that the doctor was bad-she was kind, patient, understanding. But it was the reminder, the need to acknowledge that he had to go at all.

He wasn't wearing his glasses now, though he knew he should be. Ricky had used to comment every time, like a persistent echo, but today he didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just chose not to mention it anymore. Hao would brush him off anyway. He hated the way the glasses felt on his face, like a mask he didn't want, even if they were supposed to help.

What kind of thing is meant to help you but makes you feel ridiculous? He'd tried explaining before that they didn't make anything better, but no one had listened. They all pretended to understand, to know what it was like to navigate his darkness, his strange and sudden blindness in one eye, like they could feel the same emptiness he felt.