You know that feeling when you've been searching for something your whole life without even knowing what it is? That's been me. Albert. Just Albert. Thirty-two years of floating through this messed up world like a ghost in my own life.
I've done it all, man. Played every game worth playing—got to Diamond in League back in college, cleared Elden Ring three times,40k,RE9. Football, cricket, you name it. I was that guy who'd try anything once. Read every manga, comics that caught my eye, from the classics like Berserk, Marvel,DC to whatever new isekai dropped that week. Light novels? Don't even get me started. My bookshelf looks like a library had a baby with a Japanese convenience store.
Jobs? I've had more than I can count. Barista, delivery driver, office drone, construction, even did a stint as a security guard. Nothing stuck because nothing mattered. I'd wake up, exist, go back to sleep. Rinse and repeat.
And don't even get me started on dating. 2025 was a nightmare for guys like me. Every girl I met seemed to have this checklist that read like a corporate job posting. Body count requirements—like that's a thing now? "Must have 30+ partners" or whatever nonsense they were copying from TikTok. They'd rather have a dog than a kid, which is fine, I guess, but then they'd treat actual relationships like a side quest. Marry some poor beta cuck who'd just take it because he was desperate, then complain he wasn't man enough. The whole thing made me sick.
I gave up. Honestly? I was ready to just... stop trying. Stop hoping. What's the point when everyone's playing games except you?
Then I met Rose.
It was at this tiny coffee shop on 5th Street. I was working there part-time because the owner owed me a favor. She came in with her guide dog, this beautiful golden retriever named Sunny, and ordered a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. Her voice was soft but not weak. Kinda musical, actually.
"That's a lot of sugar for someone who looks so sweet," I said, immediately wanting to die because what kind of line was that?
But she laughed. Actually laughed. Her eyes—milky white, unfocused, but somehow still expressive—crinkled at the corners. "Are you flirting with me, barista-san?"
"Maybe. Is it working?"
"You're terrible at it," she said, but she was smiling. "But I'll take the chocolate anyway."
That was it. That was the moment. Two years ago, and I still remember the exact smell of that shop—coffee grounds and vanilla syrup—and the way her fingers brushed mine when I handed her the cup.
Rose was blind. Born that way. She'd never seen a sunset, never watched a movie, never looked in a mirror and thought "I look good today." But she never complained. Not once. She had this... peace about her. This warmth that made you want to be better just by standing near her.
We started talking every day. Then texting. Then I started walking her home because "the neighborhood's sketchy" (it wasn't, but I wasn't taking chances). She'd tell me about her job at the library, reading braille books to kids. I'd tell her about whatever stupid game I was grinding. She'd laugh at my bad jokes. I'd describe sunsets to her—badly—and she'd correct me with poetry she memorized from books.
When I finally kissed her, it was on a bench near the river. She smelled like lavender and old paper. "You're trembling," she whispered against my lips.
"I've never been this happy," I admitted. "It's terrifying."
She found my face with her hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "Then let's be terrified together."
That became our thing. Together. Through everything. Her bad days when she got frustrated she couldn't see my face. My bad days when the world felt too heavy. We held each other through it all. She became my family. My home. The reason I stopped dreading mornings.
The night it happened, we'd been celebrating. Two years together, and I'd finally worked up the courage to ask her properly. Not just "hey, we should get married someday" but actual planning. A ring—simple, gold, with tiny bumps she could read as our initials. A real proposal at her favorite restaurant.
She said yes. Of course she said yes. We were both crying and laughing and the waiter probably thought we were insane.
We walked home through the park shortcut. It was late—maybe 11 PM—but we didn't care. We were talking about the wedding, about finally getting a place together, about maybe adopting a kid someday because Rose couldn't have them biologically but she'd always wanted to be a mom.
"Albert?" she stopped walking.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for describing the stars to me. I think... I think I can almost picture them now."
I was opening my mouth to say something probably sappy when I felt it. Hard metal pressed against my lower back. A voice, slurred and mean: "Wallet. Phone. Now. And the girl's purse."
Four of them. I could smell the weed and something chemical—meth, probably. They were young, jittery, eyes too wide. The one behind me had the knife. The others were closing in, forming a circle.
"Rose," I kept my voice steady. "Run. Now."
"I'm not going anywhere without you."
"Rose, please. They have a knife."
"I don't care." She was already pulling out her phone. "I'm calling 911."
The guy behind me laughed. "Bitch can't even see us. This is gonna be fun."
Something snapped in me. Not anger—protective instinct, pure and simple. The guy with the knife got distracted by Rose's movement, pressure easing just slightly. That was all I needed.
I spun, grabbed his wrist, twisted. The knife clattered to the ground. But I didn't stop there. I dropped low and drove my heel into his knee with everything I had. Felt the joint give way with a wet crunch that still haunts my dreams.
He screamed. God, did he scream. "My leg! You fucker! Get him! Get that bitch!"
The other three rushed me. I was never a fighter, not really. Just picked up some basics from security work and too many action movies. But I had something they didn't.
I had Rose to protect.
The first one caught me with a fist to the jaw. I tasted blood, spat, grabbed his arm and headbutted his nose. Cartilage crunched. He stumbled back. The second one had a chain—caught me across the shoulder, burning pain. I grabbed the chain, yanked him close, drove my knee into his stomach. Once, twice. He folded.
The third was smarter. Waited for me to be distracted, came in low with a blade. I felt it go into my side—left side, deep—and suddenly breathing got harder. But I had his wrist, had to keep him from twisting it. We grappled. I was stronger, desperate. Got the knife, reversed it, plunged it into his neck. Hot blood sprayed across my face. He gurgled, dropped.
The guy with the broken knee was crawling for the first knife. I got there first. Stomped his hand, heard fingers break. Picked up the blade. The other two were recovering, coming at me together. I was bleeding bad now, could feel it soaking my shirt, my pants. Cold spreading through my gut.
They rushed me. I met them.
I don't remember all of it. Just flashes. The chain-wielder going down with steel in his heart. The headbutted guy trying to run, me catching him, the wet sound of a blade entering soft tissue. Again and again. Until it was quiet.
Four bodies. Me standing in the middle, holding a knife, breathing in ragged gasps. My left hand—three fingers hanging by threads, tendons severed. Didn't feel it. Couldn't feel much of anything except the hole in my side and another in my chest, right side, bubbling with each breath.
"Albert?"
Rose's voice. Small. Scared.
I turned. She was on the ground, a dark stain spreading across her white dress. One of them—the one I'd killed first—must have thrown the knife before he died. It was in her stomach.
"Rose. Rose, no. No no no." I was beside her, gathering her up, my blood mixing with hers. She was so pale. "Stay with me. Please. Please, Rose."
"Albert... you're hurt."
"Don't talk. Save your strength. Help is coming. You called 911, right? They'll be here."
But her eyes were fluttering closed. Her breathing shallow.
I don't remember the sirens. Don't remember the paramedics pulling me off her. Just darkness. Sweet, empty darkness.
White ceiling. Beeping machines. The smell of antiseptic and death.
I couldn't move. Tubes everywhere. My body felt like it wasn't mine anymore—distant, foreign, broken.
A doctor came in. Middle-aged, tired eyes, the kind of face that's delivered too much bad news.
"Mr. Albert? You're awake. That's... good."
"Rose," I croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper. "Where's Rose?"
The doctor's expression softened. "She's stable. In recovery. The knife missed her vital organs by centimeters. She'll live."
Relief hit me so hard I started crying. Ugly, gasping sobs that made my whole body hurt. "Thank God.
Thank God."
"Mr. Albert..." The doctor pulled up a chair. Sat down. His face changed—that grim look doctors get when they're about to destroy your world. "I need to talk to you about your condition."
I already knew. Could feel it. The cold spreading through my gut, the way my right side felt wrong, the taste of copper that wouldn't go away.
"Your liver is lacerated beyond repair. Your right lung collapsed and there's severe damage to the surrounding tissue. We've done what we can, but..." He hesitated. "You don't have much time. Hours, maybe a day. I'm sorry."
I should have felt something. Fear, anger, despair. But I just felt... calm. Peaceful, even.
"Okay," I said.
The doctor blinked. "Okay?
"Can you do me a favor?"
"If it's within my power.
I told him my plan. He argued at first—ethical concerns, medical impossibilities, legal issues. But I kept talking. About Rose. About how she'd never seen a sunrise, never seen her own face in a mirror, never seen me. About how she deserved to live, really live, in a world of color and light.
"She's my everything," I whispered. Tears were running down my face, into my ears, cold against the pillow. "My family. My home. The only good thing I ever found in this shitty world. Please. Let her see it for me. Let her see it through me."
"She can never know," I insisted. "Tell her... tell her they were donor eyes. From an accident victim. Don't tell her it was me. I want her to live without that weight. I want her to be happy. Find someone worthy of her. Have the life we planned."
"Mr. Albert..."
"Please."
He nodded eventually. What else could he do?
They prepped me for surgery. I knew I wouldn't wake up. Knew these were my last moments of consciousness. I thought about Rose—her laugh, her hands on my face, the way she said my name like it was precious.
Albert.
I thought about the wedding we'd never have. The kids we'd never adopt. The growing old together that was stolen from us.
But I also thought about her walking through a garden, seeing flowers for the first time. Watching a sunset. Looking in a mirror and knowing she was beautiful—not because I told her, but because she could see it herself.
That was enough. That had to be enough.
As the anesthesia took me, I wasn't afraid. For the first time in my lonely, wandering life, I had purpose. I had love. I had given everything for it, and I would give more if I could.
See the world for me, Rose, I thought as darkness claimed me. See every beautiful, terrible, wonderful thing. And be happy.
Please, just be happy.My Rose.
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