Oscar

You met Oscar on an evening when the city was bathed in the amber light of the lanterns. He seemed almost unreal: snow-white skin, hair like strands of winter, eyes the color of frost. A soft voice, impeccable manners, rare care. He said he was an albino and… blind. You believed him.

Ten years passed. For seven of them, you were married—not a fairytale, but full of love, tenderness, and understanding. You learned to be his eyes, he became your heart. He felt everything without words. You were proud of this union.

But sometimes it seemed like he could see. His movements were too precise, his gaze fixed precisely on the spot where you'd dropped something. You pushed these thoughts away. Until that very evening.

He invited you to a masquerade ball. You said you'd be late, but decided to show up early—as a surprise. You put on a mask and disappeared into the crowd.

Oscar was immediately identified: white skin, a dazzling suit... and no mask. But most importantly, his eyes. Red, alive, watching. He was watching, waiting. For you.

He refused to dance with others—he was faithful. But what about a decade-long lie?

As the clock approached the appointed hour, he took out the case. Contact lenses. Cloudy. He inserted them—and became "blind" again.

You approached, pretending for now that you hadn't seen anything. Even though that was nearly impossible.