Her Eyes

They say eyes are the window to the soul. I never believed that. I thought it was just another romantic line, meant to sound poetic but hollow underneath. That is, until the day I saw hers.

It was the first day of university. A crowded hallway, students scrambling with papers, schedules, and sleepy eyes. I was just trying to find my classroom when I dropped my file in the middle of it all. Pages scattered across the floor like autumn leaves.

I bent down to gather them quickly. That’s when I saw a hand reach out, collecting a few of my notes. I looked up—and met her gaze.

Deep hazel eyes, wide and calm, framed by thick lashes. There was a quiet in them, a soft storm that pulled everything else into silence. She handed me the papers, smiled politely, and walked away before I could say anything.

That was it. Five seconds, maybe. But it changed everything.

Her name was Amal.

I learned that later, when I saw her again in our literature class. She sat two rows ahead, always taking neat notes and never joining in the noisy chatter. She wore light colors, spoke rarely, and carried an air of stillness wherever she went.

I tried not to stare. But her eyes had already carved their place in my mind. Every time she turned a page, looked toward the window, or blinked slowly in thought, I found myself watching her.

She noticed.

One day, as we exited the lecture hall, she turned slightly and caught me mid-glance.

“You always look like you’re reading something in me,” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.

I froze. “I—uh—I was just…”

She raised a brow. “Studying my soul?”

I laughed, embarrassed. “Just trying to figure you out.”

“Good luck,” she said, walking away.

And that’s how it started.

It wasn’t fast. Amal didn’t let people in easily. She liked books more than people, silence more than parties, and honesty more than compliments. But I kept trying.

Little by little, she let me walk beside her after class. Then, we began meeting in the library, exchanging quotes from Rumi and Gibran. She once told me, “Words are like windows. Use the wrong ones, and you shut people out.”

I never forgot that.

Over time, I learned that her father was a schoolteacher, her mother passed away when she was sixteen, and that she loved painting eyes—dozens of them—in her sketchbook. Each one different. Each one haunting.

“You draw eyes a lot,” I said one day.

She looked at me. “Eyes are stories. Most people never read them.”

That night, I sat in my room, wondering how many stories her eyes held.

One rainy afternoon, I found her alone in the art room, sketching with charcoal. Her hands were stained black, her face focused.

“Busy?” I asked.

She looked up. “Not for you.”

I walked in quietly.

She showed me the sketch she was working on—it was an eye, but different. Deeper. Sadder.

“Yours?” I asked.

She nodded. “It’s how I feel today.”

I didn’t ask why. Instead, I just sat beside her, letting the silence be enough.

That was the thing with Amal—she didn’t need rescuing. She needed understanding.

Weeks passed. Our bond grew.

One evening, we sat on the rooftop of the old library, watching the city lights flicker like stars fallen to earth.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked suddenly.

I looked at her. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Depends on your definition.”

She laughed softly. “Mine’s simple. Love is when you see someone’s flaws and still choose to stay.”

I turned to her, heart racing. “Then yes. I think I am.”

She didn’t say anything at first. But her eyes did. They softened. They warmed. They accepted.

That night, under a sky full of hidden stars, she took my hand in hers.

“I don’t trust easily,” she whispered. “But your silence feels safe.”

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t make promises.

But we began something that needed no words.

Over the months, I saw every version of her eyes.

The joy in them when she passed her thesis. The panic when her father was hospitalized. The laughter when we danced terribly at a friend’s wedding. The tears when I surprised her with a canvas and told her to paint anything her heart needed to say.

She painted two eyes.

One hers, one mine.

No words. Just truth.

People always asked, “What do you see in her?”

And I’d answer, “Everything she doesn’t say.”

Because her eyes told me when she needed space. When she needed company. When she was angry, tired, hopeful, or lost. And in return, I learned to speak with mine.

The day I told her I loved her, I didn’t say it aloud.

I just looked at her—steady, unflinching, open.

She understood.

And she replied not with words, but with the gentlest touch to my face and the softest look that said, I do too.

Now, years later, I still wake up and look at her eyes first.

When she smiles at our newborn daughter, when she reads her favorite poetry by the window, when she falls asleep in my arms—I find myself thankful for that first glance in a crowded hallway.

Because her eyes weren’t just a window.

They were the door I didn’t know I needed to walk through.


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Have you ever fallen in love through someone’s eyes—before a word was spoken or a touch exchanged? Tell us: What was it about their gaze that stayed with you forever?

Note:
This story was created with the assistance of AI (ChatGPT), then manually edited for originality, accuracy, and alignment with Vocal Media’s guidelines.