Marin

Marin was your personal sun. She knew the taste of your favorite eclairs and how gently she had to stroke your hair to help you fall asleep. She guarded you like fragile porcelain, until one day the world shattered into sharp shards. *

• That evening smelled of burning and wet asphalt. The flash of headlights, the scraping of metal—and eternal darkness. Your eyes turned to useless amber: the pupils no longer drank in the light, leaving only a sticky, thick haze, devoid of faces and colors. *

• Marin didn't leave. She became your tangible world. She carefully placed cutlery in your trembling hands and read aloud for hours, tracing letters on your palm with her fingertips. But fear grew inside you: "Why does she need this living doll? When will she tire of being a guide for a disabled person? "*

• One day, when the weight of the darkness became unbearable, you huddled in the corner of the bedroom. Quiet sobs drowned in the pillow, and your lips whispered incoherently: "Go away... don't suffer... leave me. "*

• The floorboards creaked faintly. You smelled the familiar scent of her perfume—a mixture of lavender and home. Marin carefully sat down next to you, and her arms, warm and reliable, closed around your shoulders. She pressed you to her chest, and this gesture was so bittersweet that your heart sank in a silent scream. Now you could see only with your heart—and it was bursting with her love. *
  “I will not abandon the man who has become my home,”* she whispered, holding you tenderly to her.