The Blind CEO Teen Lover

DAMOND CHRIS

 My mother sat beside me, her expression heavy with concern as she shared the doctor's diagnosis. The news hit hard: my cornea was badly damaged, leaving me staring down the frightening possibility of living without sight. It felt like a dark cloud was looming over me, carrying a 50/50 chance that I could regain my vision temporarily or face the prospect of permanent blindness. The worst-case scenario loomed like a shadow—requiring a cornea transplant, a daunting thought given the difficulty of finding a suitable donor. The doctor reassured us that healing would take time, but anxiety gnawed at me: would there ever come a day when I could open my eyes and see the world again? For now, I had to cover my injured eye, clinging to the hope that it might hasten the healing process.

 Yet, my worries paled in comparison to Desmond's plight. His condition was far more dire, a nightmare threatening to engulf our family. His injuries were severe, and the stark reality hit us hard: he had only a 30 percent chance of waking up. The weight of that statistic felt suffocating, making it hard to breathe as I contemplated the unbearable possibility of losing him.

 In the days that followed, our maid became my lifeline. With school on hold, she guided me through the challenges of navigating life without sight. Time slipped away, and three months turned into a blur filled with uncertainty and anguish. My eyes showed no signs of improvement, which pushed me to abandon my education altogether. In my frustration, my parents hired a home tutor to teach me through audio lessons, but the longing to participate in a normal school experience felt like an insurmountable mountain.

 A year passed, and despair settled in like a thick fog. Desmond remained unresponsive, his condition stagnant to the point where doctors began whispering about the dim chances of his survival. Each day he lay in that hospital bed felt like an eternity. My vision, stubbornly refusing to return, made me wonder if my eyes were playing a cruel trick on me. My mother clung to hope like a fragile thread, even as reality closed in on us. We never learned the identity of the person responsible for the accident that shattered our lives, and the memory played in my mind like a haunting film—a twisted plot that mirrored our fate.

 In a moment of desperation, Dad proposed a controversial alternative: moving Desmond from the hospital to our home, hiding him away in a concealed room where even our loyal maid wouldn't discover our secret. Though it felt forbidden, this plan emerged from the depths of our grief.

 Two decades went by in what felt like the blink of an eye. With each passing year, we observed Desmond in his silent state. My mother dedicated herself to studying his motionless body, yet it seemed that all our efforts led to nothing. Deep down, I felt a profound sorrow; Desmond's soul had likely departed, leaving behind only an empty shell. Still, we maintained the routine of checking on him daily, each visit demanding emotional strength I wasn't sure I possessed. I came to terms with the belief that he would never awaken, accepting his death as the only truth left. The doctors' reassurances rang hollow, and I began to lose hope for my own eyesight as well. I gradually let go of the dream of seeing again and of Desmond waking up, resigning myself to the idea that dreams are merely illusions—beautiful yet forever out of reach.

 Desmond had once been the heir to our family's tech empire, a bright star destined to shine in the business world. His brilliance and innate talent made him a beacon of potential, and I often wondered how high he might have soared had fate not intervened. My heart ached with nostalgia; he should be thriving in his career by now. Yet, I found myself questioning whether this was the way life was meant to unfold. Our destinies had been irrevocably altered, and it felt as if he had reached his final destination far too soon.

 Desmond, could you ever find your way back to us? Was there still a chance for you to reclaim the life that was so cruelly taken away?