Too Blind To See Her Breaking Novels & Stories

“Tomorrow, we try the acid.” My breath caught. My eyes fluttered, but I held onto consciousness by a thread. She leaned down one last time, voice low and poisonous. “When you break—and you will—I’ll be the one holding your hand while you beg.” And then she turned. Her heels echoed again as she walked out the door. The lock clicked behind her. And I was alone again. But not broken. Tears filled my eyes—not from pain, but fury. Every part of me ached. Blood soaked the floor beneath me.

“But I couldn’t watch them break you.” She looks at me. Her eyes are tired, but they soften. “I know,” she whispers. And that, for now, is enough

Beverly staggered back. The heels of her stilettos caught on the weeds, causing her to tip backward. The pain she expected never came. Instead, she fell into a warm embrace. Her eyes met Evan's panicked gaze. It was a look she'd never seen on his face before. Weary beyond measure, Beverly felt her reason slip away. Her poor night vision made the figure before her blend into the darkness. His chiseled features softened into a blur, his dark eyes reduced to black and white.

Now I see her curled up near the tub, the door half-open like a trap. She’s crying. Not trembling from pain. Not crying out from the bruises I left on her hips or the way I used her like she wasn’t her own. No, she’s breaking. And it’s not the kind of break that comes with noise. It’s the kind that shatters something delicate. Something I never thought I’d see.

The night before our third anniversary, Camille Everhart canceled her flight to Norhaven at the last minute. She looked at me apologetically. "Someone leaked the company's sensitive data, and it's caused quite a stir. I have to stay at the office and oversee things for the next three days." To convince me, her business partner, Nora Sinclair, sent a photo of their employees working late in our shared group chat. "Tristan, I'll need Camille for a few days. Once we get through this crisis, she'll get you a luxury watch!" My mother-in-law, Naomi Blackwell, called too. She sounded cold and detached. "A woman has to put her career first. Don't act like a little boy, throwing a fit just becaus

“She’s gorgeous. That helps.” A few people laughed. “As if that matters,” someone else muttered. “The man is blind.” More laughter followed, louder this time. I stood very still outside the door, coffee forgotten, a flicker of anger rising in my chest. Another woman spoke, her tone edged with annoyance. “She doesn’t even try to talk to anyone. Always walking around like she owns the place.” “That’s not fair,” a softer voice cut in. “She works hard. I’ve seen her stay late twice this week already. Maybe she earned it.”

Not a question. "I don't know what—" "Fire escape." She tapped the glass. "Third rung squeaks. I reported it last month. Maintenance hasn't come." She turned. Sunglasses off. Gray eyes. Clear. Focused. *Seeing me.* "I've been blind for three months, Yan. Cornea transplant. Sixteen years of darkness, and now I see everything." She stepped closer. "Including you. Standing there. Pretending." I stood. "Why?" "Why what?"

The kind of voice that had never needed to be loud to make people listen. I took a breath and walked inside. He was sitting behind a large desk. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Exactly as unforgiving as the photographs had suggested. And his eyes— Pale grey. Almost silver. They were pointed somewhere just past my shoulder. Not at me. Through me. For a second, I didn’t understand. Then I remembered. He couldn’t see me. I’d read about the accident. I’d known he was blind. But knowing something on a screen and standing three feet away from the person it had happened to were two completely different things.

She sounded in a hurry. My vision was blurry so it was hard to even keep my eyes open let alone try to see anything. "It's all darkness in here, Lila." Was there something specific that she needed me to see? "Look closer, mother. Look straight up and let me know what you see." She sounded really sure so there must be something that I had to see. There was something there to see. I shut my eyes for a while, trying to get my breath under control. I was already sweaty and fragile, on the verge of death.

She felt what she could not see, and Louis Kennedy ne'er forgot the agonized expression of the white, beautiful face which turned toward him as the wretched Maude moaned piteously, "Yes, brother, 'tis morning to you, but dark, dark night to me. I'm blind! oh, I'm blind!" She did not faint, she did not shriek, but she stood there rigid and immovable, her countenance giving fearful token of the terrible storm within. She was battling fiercely with her fate, and until twice repeated, she did not hear the childish voice which said to her pleadingly, "Don't look so, sister. You frighten me, and there may be some hope yet." "Hope," she repeated bitterly, turning her sightless eyes toward him, "the