for as long as she could remember, she loved observing eyes. the colour didn't matter, and neither did the shape nor the size. not even the person attached to the eyes mattered to her. she was a purist, and also, troublingly, a perfectionist.
eyes were the windows to the soul, she was dead certain. and after years and years of staring at eyes, during casual conversations, parent-teacher meetings, project presentations, and everything else in between, she was well-versed in reading the information that lies in them. the whites that sometimes have flecks of red and tendrils of crimson tell of anxiety, anger or sadness. but the irises held what the subconscious desired the most. one look into your eyes, and she could tell your deepest desire. it was magically ridiculous. but it worked, as all her friends vehemently maintained. it was crazy. for all that anyone knew, she was a witch in disguise. and, of course, everyone knew.
and that was why she fell in love with the boy. his eyes were the most beautiful she had ever laid hers on. if you had ever seen pictures of nebulas in space, that was exactly how his irises looked like. they were expanses of superhot gas that were frozen in time in the melanin of his iris. rainbows of refraction seemed to shimmer in his vision. a kaleidoscope of supernatural colour danced around his face. she loved him as much as she loved looking into his eyes.
and yet it hurt so much to look into them, for she knew that, for him, she could never compare to her.