I’ve never been close enough to see the color of your eyes. Even after years of staring at you, admiring you from a distance, I don’t know the color of your eyes. All I know is that its somewhere in between black and brown, obviously, like most people of our race. But its always bugged me, not knowing. I know you have a mole on your right cheek (or was it left, I might have forgotten in a year). I know your hair is pitch black, and you seem to think that spikes look really cool on it. I know you have a scar on your left arm, a little above your wrist, where you’d broken it when you fell off a bicycle. But the color of your eyes? I guess it’ll always remain a mystery to me. Just like you.
My eyes are dark brown, so dark that they almost look black from a distance. My dad has light brown eyes and I wish I’d inherited those instead of this bland color that my mom shares as well. But I guess that’s just me. Bland. Not plain ugly maybe, but not noticeable, never noticeable, in a crowd either. I merge with the walls . I’m part of the furniture. I exist, but sometimes even I forget that I do. I merely observe with these dull brown eyes of mine. They want to say a lot, but end up chickening out and saying pretty useless stuff. Like me.
His eyes are also brown, but the best shade of it. Light brown, and when the sun reflects on them, they look almost like heaven. There have been moments when I’ve just stared into his eyes while he spoke in that carefree, lively way of his. His eyes are warm, inviting- as if inspite of his rude and spoilt-brat-ish behavior, he might actually be a soft person. They make me feel safe, but I’m not fooled. The most attractive things are usually the most dangerous. But I can’t help myself. Those eyes are too hypnotic. They try to entice me with their warmth and invitation and promise of…something like home. Just like him.