Brown eyes. Like a dog’s. Not in a bad way, just…there. Present. Not asking for anything, not offering much either. Just brown. You could drown in them, sure, but it wouldn’t be a dramatic, romantic drowning. More like sinking into a lukewarm bath. Uncomfortable, a little clammy.
And inside? Forget the grand pronouncements. No swirling galaxies of thought, no tormented artist’s soul. It was simpler than that. Messier. Like a drawer full of tangled string. You know there’s something useful in there somewhere, but good luck finding it. Snippets of conversations half-remembered, worries about bills, the vague, gnawing feeling that something was missing, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.
Her mind wasn’t a cathedral or a gutter. It was a rented room. Furnished with hand-me-down furniture, stained carpets, and the faint smell of the previous tenant’s cheap cigarettes. She wasn’t building anything in there, wasn’t tearing anything down. Just existing.
So yeah, brown eyes. Big deal. And a mind full of…nothing. Or worse, full of the kind of nothing that eats you from the inside out. The kind of nothing that makes you want to smoke until you forget your own name. And in a way, that was more honest, more real, than any grand, poetic bullshit. It was just…life.
