He Can't See Me

The black Maybach eased to the curb two blocks short of Port Haven University’s south gate.

Adrian Drake grabbed the backpack from the passenger seat, pushed the door open, and glanced back with an apologetic smile. “Harris, here’s fine. Thanks for the ride.”

Harris watched his young master in the rearview mirror, brows knotted. He sighed. “Sir, this is still a long walk. There’s a major intersection ahead—traffic’s heavy. At least let me take you to the side entrance of the College of Arts…”

“No, no—here’s perfect.” Adrian waved him off, soft-voiced but firm. “Last week I got dropped farther up and ran straight into our class secretary. I spent forever explaining I was just… borrowing a distant relative’s car.”

Even saying *distant relative*, he rubbed the tip of his nose, guilty.

Harris gave up. “Fine. Watch the traffic yourself. Friday afternoon I’ll pick you up for the old house.”

“Got it. But wait for my text on Friday—I might be helping a classmate with a project.”

Adrian shut the heavy door and waved until the conspicuous black Maybach melted into the morning rush. Only then did he exhale, relief loosening his shoulders.

September in Port Haven still carried leftover heat in the morning wind. Street-stall oil smoke, the sweet scent of soy milk, and the smell of plane-tree leaves hit him all at once.

He shoved his hoodie hood back, wind-tousled hair falling over his forehead, and his mouth tipped up without permission.

He liked this stretch of road.

No one knew him. No one bowed. No one called him “Young Master Drake.” He could step on cracked tactile paving, scramble onto the curb to dodge a wrong-way shared bike, look a little ridiculous and not care.

This ordinary, feet-on-the-ground life was something he’d clawed for.

Thinking of the night two years ago when he’d filled out his college applications, Adrian still flinched, shoulders drawing in.

He’d grown up in tinted luxury cars, watching through dark glass as ordinary kids walked home together and split a roasted sweet potato on the street. That free, smoke-and-fire kind of life—he’d envied it for more than a decade.

So senior year of high school, he did the most outrageous thing of his life.

That night the study in the old house blazed with light. His grandfather, Edmund Drake, pushed a thick stack of materials for overseas elite-heir academies across the desk. Paper scraped rosewood with a clean snap, like a gavel coming down.

“London or Zurich.” The old man’s thin finger tapped the gilt crest on a cover. “No Drake grandson has ever gone to an ordinary university at home.”

Adrian stood before the desk, palms cold with sweat, breathing hard. He’d always feared his grandfather—that quiet, crushing authority. But that day, from somewhere he didn’t recognize, he clenched the seams of his trousers and spoke, voice shaking but unbroken: “Grandfather… I want to take the exams myself. I can do well.”

For that sentence he drilled practice tests day and night, scored in the provincial top ten on his own, and laid the Port Haven University acceptance letter on his grandfather’s desk.

For a top-tier capital family like the Drakes, the legitimate grandson attending a domestic flagship university was almost a joke. The day Edmund saw the letter, his face went dark.

Silence filled the study until Adrian’s legs went soft and apology rose by habit. He bit down hard and didn’t step back.

Looking at the soft, obedient grandson’s eyes—that dead resolve with no retreat—Edmund finally yielded. He shoved the letter into Adrian’s arms and turned away, cold.

“You chose this. Don’t disgrace me.”

That was all. Twenty years of compliance and desperate effort, and Adrian had pried open one thin crack in the family’s iron grip.

“Extra crispy for the wrap, kid?”

The stall auntie’s booming voice yanked him out of the memory.

“Yes, please—go easy on the chili.” Adrian blinked back, smiled, and scanned to pay.

“Hey, Adrian!” The guy ahead in line turned—a finance classmate. “Crazy running into you. Oh—last week’s macro model? Thanks for running the data. I’d have failed without you. Dinner this weekend’s on me!”

“It’s nothing, really.” Adrian waved, eyes creasing with that clean, sunny smile. “Skip dinner—midterms are coming. Everyone’s slammed.”

“You’re too nice. Anyone in the department asks, you never say no.” The guy clapped his shoulder. “Fine. Next time you need something, say the word.”

“Deal.”

Adrian took the hot wrap and bit in, hissing at the heat.

This was the life he wanted. Being needed because he was *Adrian*—because he could run models and had a good temper—not because his last name was Drake.

Two streets later, the ivy-covered red-brick building of Port Haven University’s College of Arts rose ahead.

Compared with finance’s noise and calculation, even the wind in the leaves here felt romantic. Black-and-white portraits of Mozart and Chopin lined the corridor, deep-eyed, watching students pass. The moment Adrian stepped inside, his footsteps softened on their own.

His major was finance, but nearly all his passion went into this minor. Practice rooms, ensemble class, thick stacks of sheet music—they grounded him more than any candlestick chart. Midterm assessments were close, though, and one étude still wouldn’t come alive under his hands. He’d hammered it until closing last night; his knuckles still ached.

“Just clean up those wrong notes first…” he muttered, about to head upstairs—then the digital screen at the far end of the lobby caught his eye.

Usually it only ran lecture notices. Today it looped a high-definition video.

No sound. Only image.

An international piano competition. White spotlights. A young man stepped out from the wings in a perfectly cut black tuxedo, posture straight, jawline sharp as a cut. When he took the trophy he only inclined his head—no extra expression, cold and distant.

Most striking of all: indoors, at a ceremony that formal, he wore a pair of deep black sunglasses.

Gold text scrolled beneath the screen: **Cassian Ashford — International Piano Gold Medalist**

Adrian stopped. His grip on the paper bag tightened without him noticing.

He’d heard the name. The minor’s group chat had been exploding for days—the college had spent a fortune bringing in a young professor who might as well be a god.

Seeing the footage was different. The man on screen stood in the column of light with a fierce, unquestionable command. He didn’t court the camera or the crowd. Even with those strange sunglasses, he still looked like a king above everyone else.

Adrian stared, and something like longing rose in his chest—hard to name.

He was the type who yielded, who apologized, who took care of everyone—a people-pleaser down to the bone. So when he saw someone who wore *keep your distance* on his face and still made the world applaud, the shock hit straight through the heart.

*—If I could be even half that sure of myself.*

The thought barely formed before he shook his head, ears warming.

What was he thinking? That man was a genius. Adrian couldn’t even get an étude clean.

His phone buzzed. A message from his minor advisor, Professor Miles Fenwick:

**Adrian—are you at the college? Come to my office when you are.**

Adrian froze, swallowed the rest of his wrap, typed *On my way*, and took the stairs two at a time.

Fenwick’s door stood ajar. Adrian knocked lightly and pushed in. “Professor Fenwick? You wanted to see me?”

Fenwick was sorting a thick stack of scores at his desk. He looked up and waved him over. “Perfect timing. Close the door.”

Adrian did, then stood obediently in front of the desk, nerves prickling. “Is it about yesterday’s harmony homework?”

“Homework’s fine. This is something good.” Fenwick rarely smiled; he dropped his voice. “Cassian Ashford is coming to the college today—to walk the grounds and meet the leadership. I recommended you to the department as the student representative. Show him the practice rooms and the teaching building.”

Adrian’s mind went blank with a soft roar.

Cassian Ashford?

The man on the screen downstairs—sunglasses, cold as ice, genius pianist?

“Me?” Adrian shrank half a step on instinct, eyes widening, old timidity rising. “Professor, I can’t—I’m clumsy. What if I say the wrong thing and offend him? Maybe a music major upperclassman would be better…”

“You can.” Fenwick cut him off, certain. “Your grades in the minor are among the best. More important—you’re open, even-tempered, and you keep your mouth shut. Cassian is… particular. He doesn’t need a loud student who likes the spotlight.”

Under that vote of confidence, Adrian’s fingers curled quietly inside his hoodie pocket.

The nerves were real. The fear of screwing up was real. But deepest down, a secret excitement broke ground—he might actually get close to the man who stood in the light.

He drew a breath, forced the panic down, and nodded hard. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

Fenwick looked pleased, then paused. The smile thinned; his face went unusually serious.

“Adrian—one more thing. I need you to hear this first.” His voice dropped, weighted. “Very few people outside know. Keep it to yourself.”

Adrian watched his professor’s expression. His heartbeat skipped. “What is it?”

“Cassian Ashford’s eyes,” Fenwick said, word by word. “He can’t see. He’s blind.”

Adrian went rigid.

The air in the office seemed to vanish. The lobby screen flashed through his mind—the man walking onto the stage with steady steps, taking the trophy cleanly, posture perfect, presence overwhelming.

Those sunglasses… weren’t for cool. Weren’t an artist’s quirk.

“…He can’t see?” Adrian heard his own voice go dry and tight, disbelief flooding his face. “But his playing—”

“Yes. He plays better than most people with perfect sight.” Fenwick sighed. “So when you receive him, be careful. Don’t say *look*. Don’t point and say *over there*. And don’t suddenly grab his hand or touch him because you think he can’t see.”

Fenwick studied his soft-hearted student. “He’s extremely sensitive about anyone making his eyes an issue. He listens. He doesn’t look. Speak normally—he knows what’s happening around him better than anyone.”

Adrian stood still. Fine sweat beaded along his back.

He’d thought he was about to meet an untouchable genius. He hadn’t imagined that genius’s world held not a single thread of light.

And moments ago, he’d been envying the man’s strength—his fearlessness.

“Professor.” Adrian swallowed hard and forced himself steady. Those usually gentle, smiling eyes held something careful and earnest now. “I’ve got it. I won’t say a word.”

Outside, autumn wind dragged through the ivy with a soft rustle.

Adrian couldn’t help wondering: if that man truly saw nothing, what would his voice sound like when he heard Adrian’s first words?

He wiped the cold sweat from his palms on his jeans and followed Fenwick out of the office.