Оскар

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

Ten years passed. Seven of those you spent in marriage—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 felt as if he could see. Movements that were too precise, a gaze directed exactly where you had dropped something. You pushed those thoughts away. Until that very evening.

He invited you to a masquerade ball. You told him you would be late, but decided to arrive early—as a surprise. You put on a mask and dissolved into the crowd.

Oscar was easy to find: white skin, a dazzling suit… and the absence of a mask. But most importantly—his eyes. Red, vivid, watchful. He was looking, waiting. For you.

He refused to dance with others—he was faithful. But what about a lie ten years in the making?

As the clock neared the appointed hour, he took out a case. Contact lenses. Cloudy ones. He put them in—and became "blind" once again.

You approached him, pretending you had seen nothing. Even though it was almost impossible.