I can feel it—the world is slowly fading from my sight.

The doctor’s office smells faintly of antiseptic and paper. His words still echo in my skull even as I sit there staring at the floor tiles, trying to trace their lines like they might anchor me to reality.

“It’s progressing faster than we expected,” Dr. Hasegawa says gently, the kind of voice doctors practice for bad news. “Your right eye is already compromised, and now your left is showing signs of deterioration. There’s… a high chance you’ll lose most, if not all, of your vision in the coming years.”

My mother gasps softly beside me. “But—isn’t there a surgery? A transplant? Something new?” Her voice trembles, desperate, clinging.

The doctor shakes his head, regret pooling in his eyes. “The damage is to the optic nerve. It’s irreversible. At best, we can slow it down.”

I hear my father clear his throat, but it cracks halfway. “So… there’s nothing?”

“Nothing permanent,” the doctor confirms. “I’m sorry.”

The words blur together in my head. Permanent. Irreversible. Fading.

I force my jaw to unclench. “It’s fine,” I mutter, standing too quickly, my chair scraping the floor. “I get it.”

“Kaoru—” my mother reaches out, but I pull away before she can touch me.

I don’t want comfort. Not when the last thing I have left is slipping through my fingers.

---

At dinner, the silence is unbearable. My mother keeps poking at her food, and my father tries too hard to sound casual.

“Remember when you used to draw dinosaurs on the living room wall?” he says with a half-laugh. “You must’ve been, what, five?”

I stab at my rice. “That was mom’s favorite wallpaper. She yelled at me for a week.”

“She didn’t yell,” my mom protests weakly. “I just… didn’t expect a T-Rex beside the family calendar.”

The memory should’ve been funny. Instead, it makes the food taste like sand.

“You should… consider other options, Kaoru,” my mom ventures softly. “Careers that don’t rely so heavily on—”

“On what I’m losing?” I cut in. The chopsticks tremble in my hand. “Art is what I have left. I’m not giving it up.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. My father sighs, long and tired.

“I’m not hungry,” I mutter, standing up. “I have work to do.”

I retreat to my room, ignoring their worried eyes on my back.

---

The campus studio smells of oil paint and turpentine. My canvas looms in front of me, half-finished, colors bleeding into each other like they’re running out of time—just like me.

“You know,” a familiar voice pipes up behind me, “if you stare at it any harder, it’s gonna burst into flames.”

I glance back. Aoi, my closest friend in the art department, leans against the table with a smirk, sketchbook in hand. His hair’s messy, his shirt stained with ink.

“Maybe that’s what it needs,” I mutter. “To burn.”

He tilts his head. “Dramatic much?”

“Realistic,” I say.

Before he can reply, another classmate, Kenta, strolls by, eyeing my canvas. “It’s… kinda depressing, don’t you think? People like bright. Happy. Something they’d hang in their living room.”

I don’t bother looking at him. “Not everything is supposed to be liked.”

Kenta raises a brow. “Well, good luck with that in an exhibit.” He snickers and walks away.

Aoi shoots him a glare. “Ignore him. He thinks art is just decoration.”

“Maybe he’s right,” I whisper, more to myself than to Aoi.

“You don’t believe that,” Aoi says firmly. “You’re just scared.”

I don’t respond.

---

Professor Takeda does his rounds that evening, inspecting everyone’s progress. He pauses at my canvas, studying the angry strokes of red and blue tangled with muted grays.

“You’re painting like a man racing against time,” he says quietly. His eyes flicker to mine, sharp but kind. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I grip the brush tighter. “No. Just… trying to get it right.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Bold,” he says, and moves on.

Bold. Another word for too much.

---

The night of the exhibit arrives.

The gallery is bright and cold, walls a pristine white. Students set up nervously, whispering about lighting angles and brush technique. I mount my canvas carefully, stepping back, heart pounding. Against the neat rows of landscapes and portraits, my work looks feral—untamed color clawing at the silence.

Guests filter in. Professors, students, strangers. Laughter and polite chatter fill the air, along with the clinking of glasses from the refreshment table.

People stop at the portraits, marvel at the sculpture, smile at the safe landscapes.

Then they reach mine.

Most only pause for a second before moving on. A few frown. One whispers to her friend, “Looks unfinished.” Another tilts his head and mutters, “I don’t get it.”

I hear every word.

An elderly woman lingers a little longer. She tilts her head, eyes soft. “There’s sadness in it,” she murmurs. “But it feels honest.”

She walks away, but her words stay.

Aoi sidles up beside me. “Don’t glare at them like that,” he mutters. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”

“Maybe I should,” I reply flatly.

He chuckles, but I can tell he’s worried.

---

And then—someone stops.

At first, I don’t notice him. He blends into the crowd, tall and calm, his ash-brown hair tied loosely at his nape. He’s dressed simply—button-up shirt, jacket—but there’s a quiet elegance about him, like he doesn’t need to try.

He stands in front of my canvas. Unlike the others, he doesn’t move on. He studies it, head tilting slightly, eyes intent.

Minutes pass. He leans closer, then steps back, as if he’s listening to it instead of looking. His lips move silently, like he’s murmuring something only he can hear.

My chest tightens. No one’s ever looked at my work this way.

Finally, he speaks.

“What were you trying to capture here?”

His voice is calm, steady, but it cuts through the noise like a clear note of music. His eyes shift, landing on me. Sharp, searching.

The bitterness slips out before I can stop it. “What I might never see again.”

The words hang heavy between us.

For the first time all night, someone looks at me—not with pity, not with confusion, but with genuine curiosity.

And in his gaze, I feel something unfamiliar.

Not judgment. Not dismissal.

Interest.