I don’t need eyes to recognize a lie. Valeria didn’t know who he meant, but that sentence, it struck something deep inside her. Maybe the scariest part isn’t being found out.
Maybe it’s being understood, so thoroughly, so intimately, that there’s nothing left to hide. So what do you think? Is Lusine suspicious, or already certain, is? He waiting for Valeria to confess? Perhaps the answer isn’t in what’s said, but in the gaze of a man who never needed sight to see the truth. And you, would you keep playing the part, or take off the mask, when the other person was never? BLIND TO BEGIN WITH After a night spent sharing the same room but feeling worlds apart, Valeria couldn’t sleep.
She counted every time he shifted, listened to every breath, as if trying to figure out whether this man hated her. But Lusine did nothing. No accusations.
No questions, no touch. His silence wasn’t indifference, it was a wall. Thin, soft, but cold as ice, she thought she’d be exposed.
But the next morning, Lusine still treated her like his lawful wife. Valeria began to live in his world, a world of quiet, of precision, without noise or chaos. And in that silence something unexpected began to happen.
She started to want to stay. She used to think the silence in this house was the worst part, but then she realized maybe it was her presence that was changing things little by little. She woke earlier, went into the kitchen to make breakfast the way she’d learned he liked it, from tips the assistant had whispered to her.
She stopped, calling for the staff. She cleaned and rearranged his study, a room left untouched, sealed in silence since the accident. Lusine didn’t ask anything.
He simply touched the edge of the desk, the bookshelf, the penholder, and said nothing. But—that night, he asked quietly, she never stepped into this room. Valeria’s breath caught for a beat.
She knew who she was. Celeste, I know, she said. I just wanted to make it a little more comfortable for you.
Lusine didn’t respond, but his fingers curled tightly around the wooden armrest. That afternoon they walked together in the garden. For the first time Lusine let her lead him without his cane.
The breeze was gentle. She described the flowers slowly, purple lavender, white daisies, hydrangeas beginning to wilt. He didn’t interrupt, but then asked.
You don’t tell me about orchids any more? She froze. That had been Celeste. Celeste had once spoken to—him about orchids, not her.
I thought maybe—today the other flowers deserved to speak, she whispered. Lusine smiled, for the first time. But it wasn’t a peaceful smile.
It was the kind of smile someone gives when they realize their— speaking to a different soul—night fell. A soft amber glow filled the living-room. Only the wind through the windows and the soft creak of wood remained.
Valeria sat and read to him. Not Shakespeare or Brontë like Celeste once had, but a gentle, quiet novel. Lusine didn’t comment.
But he tilted his head, his breathing deepening. Your voice, he said after she stopped reading. It’s warmer.
The way you touch me is softer, even your silence, and feels different. Valeria put the book down, her hands tightening on the armrest. He turned his face toward her.
Blind eyes, yet unflinchingly. Direct, if you’re someone else, he paused. I think I might like you more.
She didn’t respond. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to believe it was a confession.
But maybe—it was a quiet unveiling, a gentle way of saying I know, and in that long, tender silence something began to stir, a little care, a little fear, a flicker of something unnamed between two people bound in a strange marriage, one who couldn’t see and one who had never been truly seen. That morning Valeria sat alone in the old study she had just finished cleaning. Sunlight spilled across the wooden floor, glinting off picture frames that held no photos.
She didn’t know why she was there. Maybe because it was the one place. No one ever entered.
Maybe because for the first time she wanted to just be herself, even if only for a few stolen minutes. The door burst open. No knock, no warning.
Celeste walked in like the house belonged to her. Behind her came their mother, heels striking the floor like a ticking death sentence. We need to talk, her mother said.
Valeria sat up straight, trying to stay calm. About—what? Celeste didn’t answer. She strolled around the room, fingers grazing the wooden desk before picking up a book, then tossed it back with a sharp, cutting thud.
The thing is—you’re getting a little too deep into character. Valeria. Stayed silent.