Almost blind | Haobin

42| Touch Without Touching |42

Later that night, Hao found himself alone in the temporary room Matthew had shown him. It was tucked away on the second floor, just a single door separating him from Hanbin's. As far as he knew, it was a guest room-probably used rarely, and it certainly felt like it. The kind of space that held no memories, no laughter in the walls, no warmth in the floorboards.

The room was sterile, almost surgical in its simplicity. A single bed stood by the window, stiff and square, like it had never truly been slept in. The walls were painted an unforgiving white, cold and blank, and the only other pieces of furniture were a narrow closet and a small bedside table that looked like it had been placed there out of obligation rather than need. Minimalism, some would call it. Aesthetically clean, even beautiful, in a cold magazine-spread sort of way. But to Hao, it felt like a hollow shell.

It reminded him too much of the hospital.

The same plain walls, the same sterile scent of nothing, and that same haunting emptiness that had kept him company when no one else could. He hadn't noticed it earlier when Matthew had first brought him in. Back then, the sound of footsteps and voices had filled the air, and Hao had been too busy nodding and pretending to care about curtain colors. But now-now that the house had gone quiet, and everyone had disappeared into their own little corners of sleep-it all came rushing in.

The silence pressed in on him like a weight, and he found himself unable to escape the cold grip of his own thoughts.

They had returned late from the ice rink, the night stretched longer than they planned. The walk back through the dim, sleepy streets had been unexpectedly peaceful. Hao had genuinely enjoyed himself, and for once, the tension that usually coiled around him like barbed wire when he was near Matthew had loosened. They'd laughed, shared stories. Even Keeho-Matthew's friend-had surprised him. He was loud and a little chaotic, but charming in a way that reminded Hao of Kuanjui. If time or fate had placed them in the same grade, he was almost sure they'd be close.

When they finally reached Matthew's place, his parents welcomed them with warm pancakes-ones Matthew had finally agreed to let them eat-and soon after, everyone disappeared into their respective rooms. Hanbin had looked drained, barely able to keep his eyes open. Hao had felt the same. His bones ached for rest, and he thought that once he curled under the covers, sleep would take him quickly.

But it didn't.

Even wrapped tightly in a blanket, dressed in oversized pajama pants covered with sleepy red pandas, he couldn't shake the cold. It had crept into the room, into his skin, into his chest. The wind tapped at the window, soft at first, then louder, like a reminder that the night was alive and he was not. No matter how many times he shifted under the blanket, changed positions, or tried counting the cracks in the ceiling, sleep wouldn't come.

It wasn't just the room that was cold. It was the memory of the hospital, the loneliness etched into sterile corners, the echo of silence that sounded too much like being forgotten. And now, even surrounded by people-nice people-he couldn't help but feel like a ghost in someone else's home.

-----☆☆☆☆☆-----

Pinned against the thin mattress of the hospital bed, his arms were bound tightly to the cold, metallic bedframe-restrained with such precision, it was as if they feared he might turn into something monstrous at any second. Only his legs remained untied, dangling uselessly off the edge like forgotten marionette strings. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't stand. He couldn't even roll to one side.

The room was swallowed in thick, unrelenting darkness, a darkness that pressed against his skin like a damp cloth. After what felt like hours-maybe longer-his eyes slowly began to adjust. Shadows shaped themselves into vague outlines. The walls surrounding him were pale and colorless, a sterile, haunting white that reminded him of bone and bleach.