She was always so animated when she talked. You could stare at her for hours, observing the way she used her hands when she was excited, or how her eyebrows would furrow and wrinkle when she was deep in thought. Her face was a poem you knew by heart.

But her eyes– there was something about her eyes– the way they darted and fluttered like a bird, never landing anywhere for more than a few seconds. Never finding home. Always wary of settling anyplace for too long– as though if you had a second to look into them you might see pain you’d never noticed before; and if she looked into yours, she might see love and not know what to do with it.