Our first date was at a tiny Italian restaurant, candlelight flickering on the table. I talked too much—nervous, rambling about my job, my dog, anything to fill the silence. When I finally paused to catch my breath, I saw her looking at me, a soft smile playing on her lips. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” she said. I felt my cheeks heat up, but I didn’t look away. For a second, the noise of the restaurant faded. In her eyes, I saw something I’d never seen before—curiosity, warmth, maybe even a little spark. That night, I walked her to her door, and when she said “I had fun,” her eyes told me she meant it. I should’ve known then: her eyes would always tell the truth, if only I took the time to look.
Months later, we fought. It was stupid—something about me canceling plans last minute, again. I stood by the couch, arms crossed, defending myself, while she sat on the edge of the bed, quiet. “You never listen,” she said, voice small. I rolled my eyes, ready to snap back—but then I saw her. Her shoulders were hunched, and her eyes… they were shiny, like she was holding back tears. I stopped mid-sentence. I sat down next to her, slowly, and reached for her hand. This time, I didn’t just look at her—I saw her. The hurt, the disappointment, the fear that I didn’t care as much as she did. “I’m sorry,” I said, and this time, it wasn’t just words. Her eyes softened, and she leaned into my shoulder. We talked all night, not just about the fight, but about everything—what scared us, what we wanted. All because I didn’t ignore her eyes.
Last week, I messed up again. I was scrolling through my phone during breakfast, half-listening while she talked about her dream trip to Paris. She stopped talking, and the room went quiet. I looked up, confused, and found her staring at me, her eyes tired. “Do you even want to hear this?” she asked. My heart dropped. I put my phone down, set it on the counter—out of sight. “Tell me everything,” I said, leaning forward. I watched her eyes light up as she described the Eiffel Tower at night, the cafes along the Seine. She talked faster, her hands gesturing, and when she laughed, her eyes crinkled at the corners. In that moment, I realized how much I’d been missing—all the little joys, the hopes, the parts of her she was eager to share—because I was too busy staring at a screen.
Love isn’t just grand gestures or sweet texts. It’s looking into her eyes when she talks, even when you’re tired. It’s seeing the hurt in her gaze before she says a word, and fixing it. It’s putting down the phone, shutting out the noise, and letting her know she’s the only thing that matters right now.
Tonight, we’re going back to that Italian restaurant. I’ll let her talk, and I’ll listen—not just with my ears, but with my eyes. Because I know now: ignoring her eyes isn’t just ignoring a look. It’s ignoring the love she’s trying to give. And that’s a mistake I’ll never make again.
