Chapter 3

I eased the bedroom door open and relied on my mental map of the apartment to shuffle toward the water dispenser in the kitchen.

Out of nowhere, my foot caught against the corner of a low coffee table. I lost my balance entirely and crashed heavily to the floor, an instinctive cry of pain escaping my lips.

The thud instantly woke Clara on the couch.

"Leo?! What happened?!"

I heard the rustle of blankets, followed by quick, hurried footsteps rushing over to where I had fallen. She knelt down to hoist me up.

Disoriented and flustered, my hands reached out blindly to find some leverage, only for my palm to grab hold of something incredibly soft and yielding.

Clara let out a sharp, breathless gasp.

A jolt of panic shot through me, and I yanked my hand back as if I had touched an open flame.

"I'm so sorry! Clara, I swear I didn't mean to—"

In my blindness, I had no idea what part of her body my hand had landed on, but from the softness and her reaction, it definitely wasn't her shoulder.

While I was spiraling in mortification, Clara gently wrapped her arms around my torso to help me stand. Once I was upright, she asked with gentle concern, "Are you alright? Why did you get up all by yourself in the middle of the night without calling for me?"

Flustered, I mumbled, "I'm fine... I just woke up really thirsty and wanted a glass of water."

She guided me over to the couch, sat me down, and brought me a cold glass of water. Only after I drank it down did she mention that it was barely three in the morning.

"Let me help you back to bed," she murmured, her voice steady again. "Remember, from now on, if you need anything at all, just shout for me. That's the whole reason I'm here."

I nodded sheepishly. "Okay."

From that night on, our shared life under one roof officially began.

Inevitably, it led to plenty of awkward encounters.

I had promised to call her whenever I needed help, but there were some things a grown man simply couldn't ask a woman to assist with—like using the bathroom. Whenever nature called, I always insisted on feeling my way along the walls by myself.

More than once, I would push the bathroom door open, only to be met by a startled yelp from Clara inside.

Mortified, I would slam the door shut in an instant, apologizing profusely through the wood.

Similar embarrassments happened constantly. Clara was used to the relaxed, open atmosphere of rural life, where doors weren't kept religiously locked.

She rarely knocked before entering my room. On several occasions, as I was fumbling to change my clothes, she would push the door wide open, walking right in on me in my boxers.

If I had my sight, the humiliation would have killed me on the spot.

Yet, despite the awkwardness, her meticulous, tender care slowly washed away the lingering dread and trauma of the accident.

One morning, I got out of bed, carefully dressed myself by touch, and made my way into the living room.

After weeks of practice, I could navigate the small apartment fairly well on my own.

Hearing the soft hum of the television, I called out softly, "Clara?"

She was sitting on the couch. She greeted me with a cheerful hello, but a second later, she burst into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

I stood there, bewildered. "What's funny?"

Her footsteps approached, and she stopped right in front of me, laughing softly. "Oh, Leo... Maybe from now on, you should just let me help you get dressed. Look at you—literally every single thing you're wearing is inside out and backward!"

My face burned with embarrassment. Before I could make an excuse, she took my arm and turned me around. "Come on, back to the bedroom. Let me fix you up. You've been cooped up inside for weeks anyway—how about I take you out for a walk today?"

The thought of her dressing me made me panic even more. "No, no, really, Clara, I can fix it myself!"

"Oh, hush! If you go out looking like that, people will laugh you right off the sidewalk," she teased gently. "What are you so shy about? Just pretend I'm blind too, alright?"

I froze, stunned by her logic. Before my brain could catch up, Clara’s warm fingers were already deftly unbuttoning my shirt.

The shock paralyzed me. I couldn't move or protest. By the time I was down to just my undershirt and boxers, I finally snapped out of it and scrambled under the safety of the bed covers like a frightened turtle.

Clara retrieved a fresh set of clothes from the closet. Seeing me huddled under the duvet with only my head poking out, she burst out laughing again. I wished the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

"Alright, silly, do you want to get some fresh air or not?" she said, her voice teasing yet fond. "It's stuffy in here. The doctor said getting some sunshine and walking around is good for your recovery."

In the end, under her cheerful persistence, I could only sit there with flaming cheeks, letting her pull a clean shirt over my head and help me adjust my pants.

She guided me outside. The long-lost sounds of bustling traffic, distant chatter, and the rustle of leaves instantly lifted the heavy fog that had weighed on my chest.

We strolled through the neighborhood park, visited a local shopping mall, and stopped by the farmers' market.

Through it all, her hand never once left my arm.