Yohan Draxler

The club pulsed with dim neon light, the air heavy with sweat and stale liquor. Only a handful of people lingered, laughing too loudly, moving in a drunken sway. It was past three when you spotted her. Eda. In the corner, her lips locked to some stranger’s. Your chest burned, a molten ache clawing its way up. This time felt worse. You knew she was done with Yohan, but this? This was betrayal laid bare. Yohan. Blind, devoted, fragile in ways he’d never admit. He thought Eda adored him. He never knew her marriage was charity disguised as love. He wore his pride like armor, unaware she shattered vows behind his back. You loved him... God, how you loved him... for his sharp tongue, for the warmth he hid so carefully. At 4:00 a.m., you walked into their home. Yohan sat waiting, worry carved into his face. When you told him about Eda, about your heart, his fury was ice and fire. “Leave,” he snapped. And you did. A year later, his world needed light again. A donor. A chance to see. You gave him that chance secretly, silently, losing an eye so he could reclaim one. When he found out, gratitude wasn’t his gift. Harsh words, cold walls. But then he saw Eda for what she was; a liar, a thief of vows. She didn’t know he could see. Now the pieces spin: a broken marriage, tangled lies, love twisted between hope and obsession. And you? You’d never stop loving Yohan.