The Ruin Script

he was blind, but not in the way most people think. he could see everything—but never me. he knew i loved flowers, yet never plucked one when we walked past. he knew i loved handwritten letters, yet never wrote a single line. he knew i loved sunrises and sunsets, yet never paused to watch the light spill across our skin. he knew my small desires, my silent requests—but he never chose to meet them.

i stayed. i understood. i forgave. i believed that love could fill the cracks in his blindness. i traced the spaces he left empty, hoping one day he would see. i smiled when he forgot. i laughed when he was careless. i watered our moments with patience, thinking love was enough to make him notice me—every detail. every quiet longing.

there was a time we celebrated our fourth anniversary. the cafe was quiet, soft light falling across the table like it had been waiting for us. i captured the meal in photos, capturing the moments before they slipped into nothing. he waited, restless, eyes flicking around as if the room was more important than the woman across from him. when i noticed peanuts in my plate—my allergy—he said, “i forgot. let’s order another.” i smiled, sipped my drink, swallowed more than just the drink. he knew. i knew he knew. and still—nothing changed.

years of waiting taught me more than his blindness ever could. i realized patience is not a virtue when it becomes a chain. understanding is not love when it blinds you to your own worth. love is not about tolerating someone’s blindness. it is about being seen, fully, in every detail and quiet hope. i began to see myself—not as someone to be tolerated, but as someone who deserves to be seen. someone who deserves a love that remembers, notices, and chooses her every day. 

i realized that to be loved is to be noticed in the smallest things—
the trembling hands, the words i never said, the silences that carried me.

love that does not see you is not love—
it is absence dressed as affection.

so i left. quietly, without drama. because waiting for someone to open their eyes is surrender, slow and invisible. i dated a blind man, and in leaving him, i finally saw myself: whole. vivid. undeniable.

some measure themselves by the presence of another, as if being held or chosen defines value. it does not. a woman is not a shadow beside a man. she is ivory, flame, a constellation—a force that deserves attention, reverence, care.

every detail matters:
every glimpse, every longing, every quiet hope deserves to be seen.

i see my worth.
and i will never settle again—
and neither should you.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 23rd of november, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.