I Think I'm Blind

A body still present, but the person inside is receding—quietly, slowly, invisibly. Not by choice, but pulled inward by illness. Cancer becomes a kind of silence, a soft erasure of connection.

Medical textures wrap around the images: IV lines, scan sheets, sterile light. Within them, fragments of memory—shared hobbies, favorite places, moments once vivid. These pieces remain, but they don’t fit like they used to.

The person looks back, but not in the same way. Their gaze is distant, unfixed. I'm still in the room with her, but something has shifted.