She had noticed it long before she dared to mention it. The way his eyes would wander — to her shoulder, her neck, the space just beyond her face. He wasn’t distracted; he was avoiding. And she couldn’t decide which hurt more: the distance or the reason behind it.
At first, she told herself it was normal. Some people found eye contact too intimate, too exposing. But with him, it felt like there was more — a quiet wall he built between them each time things got too close. He could touch her, whisper to her, even breathe her name like it meant everything — but he couldn’t look into her eyes and stay there.
It took her time to realize that looking away wasn’t a lack of passion. It was protection. He was hiding something — not from her, but from himself.
He had lived too long in a world where vulnerability was dangerous, where feelings were something to manage, not express. Eye contact, to him, wasn’t just physical — it was confession. To hold her gaze would mean letting her see the storm he’d spent years containing: the doubts, the guilt, the pieces of himself he’d been taught to keep buried.
So he’d close his eyes, or look away, as if connection was too bright to face.
She learned to stop taking it personally. Instead of forcing his gaze, she started to guide him gently — not with demands, but with quiet patience. She’d trace her fingers along his jaw, not to make him look, but to remind him that he was safe. That she wasn’t asking for perfection — only presence.
Over time, something shifted. One night, when the silence between them grew still enough to feel real, he met her eyes — not briefly, not by accident, but fully. The look wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. It was raw. He looked at her the way people look at something they’ve avoided for too long — with relief, with fear, with awe.
And she realized then that his avoidance had never been rejection. It was reverence. He wasn’t afraid of her; he was afraid of being seen so deeply that he couldn’t hide anymore.
Now, sometimes, he still looks away — out of habit, out of instinct. But when their eyes meet, it’s deliberate, not forced. It’s his way of saying what he can’t always put into words: I’m here. I see you. Even when it’s hard to be seen myself.