Many people say that I have pretty eyes. Like it’s a simple thing, like beauty is only what lives on the surface.

They tell me how they sparkle, how they shift in the light, changing shades like they’re playing a game- grey to brilliant blue, soft to storm- as if my eyes were made only for wonder.

But if they looked closer, not just at them, but into them, they might hesitate before calling them pretty.

Because these eyes have carried too much.

They have held onto moments that should have slipped away, scenes that replay in quiet hours when the world finally softens its noise.

There are things reflected here that no light can soften, memories that cling to the edges no matter how brightly I try to look forward.

If they knew what lived behind the color, behind the shine, the weight of it, the quiet ache of remembering, they might choose a different word.

Not pretty.

Maybe heavy. Maybe tired. Maybe something closer to the truth.

Because eyes don’t just sparkle; they witness. They absorb. They remember.

And mine… mine have seen things I would trade anything to forget.

Still, they look at me and smile, captivated by the way the light dances; never realizing that what they’re admiring isn’t just beauty... but survival.

It’s crazy, isn’t it? How much a pair of eyes can hold without ever speaking a word.

You can see the storms someone survived, the nights they didn’t sleep, the moments they wish would fade but never quite do.

Eyes don’t know how to lie very well, even if the rest of the body does. They flicker, hesitate, soften when something hurts, harden when something broke them. You can catch glimpses of laughter still hiding in the corners, or sadness that lingers no matter how wide the smile is.

It’s like looking through a window that was never meant to be opened, but somehow, for a second, you’re let inside.

And in that moment, you don’t just see a person; you see their story.

It leaped out at me that night. The sand. The heat. The golden golden oh so golden grains that smothered and covered me until I was thick on the floor, heavy right down to my bones.

I should have seen it coming. Of all the people in the world I should have seen it coming because eyes tell stories. They read them out to you, book in hand, brail on stand by. They flush and rush and tuck and roll and this pair, oh this pair, did that a lot. I thought it was a sign of weakness, an invitation slipped beneath a door or even a birthday balloon handed to me at the front of class, but the sand. It-it was a lie. Eyes don't lie they never ever lie. At least they're not supposed to.

So, of course, I took the kind hand (it was cold and harsh and calloused, not what I expected) and smiled a full-teeth-smile and watched, damn it I actually watched as those desert eyes drowned me and burned me.

Sand in my mouth my lungs down my top scolding my skin scarlet. I heard mettle clank. I heard music sway. And I slowly, slowly, s l o w l y l o s t v i s i o n. Black. Airtight. Help, please, can't, breathe.

My auntie wasn't the only adult to warn me about them, and I certainly wasn't the only child to be sat down, lights of, tap running, to have a sickening melody tickle my ear and fright my conscious.

The eye sinkers. Vision freaks. Iris radicals. Pupil drippers.

So many names.

And one job that needed filling.

I just never assumed that spot would be reserved for me.

Although I must say that, until those golden-desert eyes, I was happy. I think?