"Mrs. Anders, your eyes have recovered remarkably well. All those days of regular injections and diligent treatment have paid off. It's heartbreaking to see how much you've suffered, especially with side effects like vomiting," the doctor said, his tone gentle yet professional.
The office was bright and sterile, the faint hum of machinery filling the silence. As soon as the doctor finished speaking, the nurses broke into smiles, their warm congratulations surrounding me. Their faces were kind, their words genuine, but they only added to the ache in my chest.
I had endured months of searing pain from daily injections, my body bruised and exhausted. My sole motivation had been Tristan—to surprise him, to see his face light up when I opened my eyes for the first time in years. But now, their cheerful voices grated against the memory of his words, the first ones I'd heard with my restored vision: "For Anya, I wasted six years taking care of a blind woman. Now that Zara is pregnant, I doubt she'll still remain indifferent."
If these kind-hearted people knew the truth, would they still congratulate me?