A Final Farewell

The world behind my right eye turned to utter darkness five years ago. That day, to shield Caleb Lewis, I took the enemy's blade in his stead. The moment the knife's edge sliced across my eyeball, I heard his heart-rending cry of my name, and his vow that I would be his belief for this lifetime. In the end, he truly did it—at least, in the beginning, he did. His left arm bore the character "Stacy"—my name; on the nape of his neck was inscribed the date we first met, June 18, 2015; Even over the place closest to his heart, a small sun was tattooed, saying it was me, the one who could light up his life. Whenever I touched the sun on his chest, he would pull me close, resting his chin atop my head. "Stacy, this way, every beat of my heart revolves around you." I once believed this would last a lifetime—until the night before our wedding. That day, I had simmered the corn and pork rib soup he loved, sitting on the living room sofa, waiting for him to come home. The clock on the wall struck eleven, and finally, the sound of keys turning echoed from the entrance. I had just risen to go warm the soup in the kitchen when I saw, beneath the open collar of his shirt, the skin over his chest was freshly red and swollen—the sun emblem that had accompanied him for three years was gone. In its place was the profile of a stranger, the outline of a girl's face, her features soft, a tiny mole at the tail of her brow, radiating a fragile, pitiable sorrow at first sight. My fingertips went instantly cold, my steps heavy as if weighted with lead as I moved before him, my fingers hovering just above his heart, unable to dare touch. "Caleb Lewis, who is this?" He suddenly gripped my wrist, his strength nearly crushing my bones, his voice cold as the winter wind that slashes through my chest with pain. "Don't touch!" I stood frozen where I was, watching helplessly as he lowered his head and carefully wiped that tattoo with the pad of his finger, as if it were dust from a rare, priceless treasure. He did not explain a word, only silently passed me by and walked straight into the guest room, closing the door with a bang, shutting out the last trace of warmth between us. That night, I sat alone in the empty living room; the pork rib soup had grown cold, droplets of condensation clinging to the porcelain bowl's exterior, mirroring my heart sinking deeper with each passing moment. At dawn, I touched the scar near my right eye and suddenly recalled how he used to say it was the medal of our love — now, it felt like nothing but a bitter joke.