Almost blind | Haobin

14| confession |14

Hao sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall where his old paintings hung, pinned like memories frozen in time. Each brushstroke seemed to whisper a story from a past life-his past life.

At least he was no longer confined to that damn hospital. But being home wasn't much better. He felt like a stranger in his own house, as if the walls themselves were reluctant to embrace him. Every corner seemed haunted by ghosts of memories that followed him, their weight growing heavier with every step he took.

But this is what he wanted, right?

His room was like a time capsule, untouched and suspended in his absence. The posters on the walls, the books on the shelves, and the faint scent of paint lingering in the air-it all pulled him back to a younger version of himself. A version he barely recognized anymore.

Ricky wasn't home. He was at work, leaving Hao alone with the silence, a companion he had grown too familiar with over the years.

It had been a few days since Hao returned, enough time for the strangeness of the house to dull into something resembling normalcy. He even had his phone back now, a device he hadn't touched in years. Holding it felt foreign, like an old man fumbling with new technology. But he managed, with Ricky's guidance, to download a few basic apps-just enough to dip a toe into the vast, noisy ocean of the outside world.

Still, there was one person he couldn't reach-Taerae. Phones were forbidden in the hospital, and even now, their contact was limited. Hao wished he could hear Taerae's voice more often, at least once a week. The ache of that absence gnawed at him like a wound that refused to heal.

Sighing, Hao rose from the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. He stepped out of his room and headed toward the stairs. His fingers gripped the railing tightly as he descended, the white steps below him blurring and merging into a disorienting haze. It had happened before-he'd tripped and fallen a few times-and he wasn't about to let it happen again.

At the bottom, he went straight to the bathroom. Opening the small cabinet above the sink, he pulled out a fresh roll of bandages. His wrists throbbed beneath the old ones, the tightness and grime making the discomfort unbearable.

The doctors had stitched the deep gashes, but the scars were raw and swollen-a cruel reminder of his struggle. He unwound the old bandages carefully, wincing as the fabric peeled away from his tender skin. The red, inflamed flesh beneath glared back at him, a silent accusation.

"I should've died instead of going through this," he murmured under his breath, his voice bitter and low.

He wrapped the new bandages around his wrists with practiced precision, making sure not to tie them too tightly. The process was mechanical, almost mindless, but it gave him a fleeting sense of control.

When he finished, he turned to leave, intending to retreat back to his room. But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a sound stopped him cold-a sharp knock at the front door.

Hao hesitated, his heart drumming like a restless bird trapped in a cage. His father wasn't home. The realization coiled around his chest like an anxious serpent. But on the other hand, wasn't he turning eighteen soon? He had to learn to stand on his own feet, to answer the door without a fortress to hide behind. Right?

Humming under his breath as if to summon courage, he crept to the main door, each step a whisper against the quiet floor. His fingers brushed the cold doorknob, and after a moment's hesitation, he cracked the door open just enough to poke his head out.

The figure before him was tall, his brown hair catching the faint glow of the porch light like polished wood. He wore black trousers and a crisp white button-up shirt, its edges neat and precise, yet his demeanor held a certain disarray. He stood there, clutching something in his hand..flowers?