It’s Always In the Eyes

They sat facing each other in the cabin, lit only by one lazy sunbeam and the crackle of the wood stove. A kettle steamed quietly, waiting for someone to pour the tea neither of them really wanted. Outside, the wind moved through the pine trees like a warning.

Maari folded her hands and waited. She had called this meeting. Not to argue, not to accuse, but to reach—a soul-level reach, the kind she only reserved for the ones she still hoped for.

“Elira,” she said softly, “why won’t you look at me?”

Elira’s posture didn’t change. She traced the edge of a ceramic mug with her finger, circling it like a charm, and stared just past Maari’s left ear.

Maari tilted her head, gentle but unrelenting. “It’s always in the eyes. The truth. The spirit. That’s where I see what’s really going on. But you won’t meet me there.”

A flicker.

Elira’s gaze darted over—quick, guarded. But for a breath, Maari caught it: the eyes like a brown puddle after rain, clouded and shallow, hiding something beneath their stillness. And for that one breath, Maari knew—Elira was caught. She knew Maari saw her.

Then it was gone.

“I don’t look people in the eyes,” Elira said coolly, reaching for that old, sugary tone that once passed for peace. “Because I do see what’s there. And it’s not safe.”

A pause. Her mouth twitched, the corners pulled tight.

“You think you see so much, Maari. But really—you don’t see sh—anything. You’re just projecting your wounds. Again.”

Her voice cracked slightly on again. Just enough.

Maari didn’t flinch. She let the silence answer first. Then rose.

“If what’s in my eyes scares you,” she said, voice firm but tender, “maybe it’s because it reminds you of what you lost. Or what you gave away. Where is YAH for you, Elira?”

Elira didn’t respond. But her hand had stopped circling the mug.

Maari stepped outside, where the wind cut clean and the trees whispered truth. Behind her, the kettle began to whistle—unattended, boiling over.

The whistle grew louder behind Maari as she left, and the door creaked shut with a soft finality. Inside, Elira didn’t move right away. The silence returned, thick and expectant.

Then, slowly, she stood.

The mirror in the corner wasn’t grand—just a slice of glass tacked to the wall with nails that rusted a little more each winter. She approached it like it might move. Like it might bite.

For a moment, she hovered there.

Her own reflection stared back: same long wig, same soft skin and over-sized artificial lips, same brown eyes that once drew people in like a story they hadn’t heard yet. But now? They looked…muddied. Something danced behind them—a flicker, a flaw, a bruise. She blinked, and it blinked back.

“Nothing,” she whispered, as if that might undo it. “There’s nothing wrong.”

But her voice wavered.

A memory flashed—Maari’s gaze, steady and clear, refusing to look away. The difference was undeniable. One held conviction. The other...Elira’s eyes were puddles after the storm. Shallow. Avoidant. Reflective only when the light hit just right.

She leaned closer. Her breath fogged the glass.

“If what’s in my eyes scares you, maybe it’s because it reminds you of what you lost. Where is YAH for you, Elira?”

Elira swallowed.

Then she turned sharply, wiping a tear that hadn’t yet fallen, and slammed a kitchen drawer shut—loud enough to silence the thought. She grabbed her phone. Opened the camera. Touched up her lip gloss. Smiled.

Record.

"Shalom, family," she said, in that voice like syrup and secrets. “I just wanted to share a quick word…”