It was the summer that my sister came back home. When she walked into the room, she was positively glowing with life. Love, they say; love makes people bloom. Excited chattering filled the air, many tears, hugs, and joyful murmurings lovingly exchanged. I lounged in the corner, aloof, surveying the homey scene with mild interest and peaceful contentment.

And at that moment, precisely that moment, he entered.

It is not true that time slows down. No music swells dramatically in the background. A complete suspension, perhaps, or an utter standstill of the universe may be more fitting. The natural order of space and time and nature ceased, and a great silence blanketed my mind. His eyes, reader, his eyes!

They burned. They burned and burned with an unquenchable thirst, resenting the confines of his face. Everything paled in comparison; no, to say paled is a gross understatement. I would be hard-pressed to remember anything but those eyes. Some say that flames flicker and dance. Dance? No, dancing is too graceful, too tame, too weak for the lunging, snapping ferocity of those flames. They soared and crackled, searing my soul with a blazing inferno. Oh, they were as black as black could be, with unfathomable depths and indecipherable emotions. However, I was not intimidated; no, I did not back down so easily! They were neither cold nor arrogant. It was the majesty of a prowling lion, power and authority humming almost tangibly in the air.

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She was sitting in corner, slightly distancing herself from the chaotic happiness in the room. A lone, thoughtful soul in the sea of chattering, friendly faces. Suddenly, there was a force moving in the room- a completely foreign and unfamiliar force. Her eyes… her eyes smoldered. I had once heard, from my grandfather, that my eyes burned with flickering flames. But if my eyes were flames, hers were embers. They did not announce their presence or proudly demand to be noticed as did my own dark eyes. They glowed, they pulsed with an underlying strength and beauty; I had never seen the likes of it before. It was the power of the ocean in a jar; gentle and complacent for the moment, but thrumming with an undeniable force.
My little brother had once confidently announced that I had scary eyes. I had playfully picked him up, spun him around, and told him that he was being silly. And it was true- people usually weren’t affected by my strange, unusually dark eyes. I chuckled under my breath. ‘Little brother, I do believe I’ve met a girl with scarier eyes than mine.’

But while all these thoughts were swirling around in my mind, she began gazing intently at me. Her forehead wrinkled slightly as those eyes examined me, coolly probing into my soul. They were wary- humming with energy, radiating heat, and so, so alive! They unsettled me. No one had ever looked at me the way her eyes were boring into me. It was uncomfortable yet exhilarating, confusing yet calming. I felt myself gazing back at her- warily, trying to understand this girl with the strange, beautiful, mysterious eyes. She unflinchingly met my stare, unafraid and openly curious. There we stood, watching.

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I could feel it. The formation of a bridge. A thin thread, cautiously winding its way towards this mysterious boy with the powerful eyes. Who was he? My sister’s fiancée, yes. A complete stranger, yes. Yet… some strange, magnetic force emanated from him, like the pulsing of the heart of the earth. It was as if he were reaching out to me, searching with cautious yearning. Our soul-threads began to dance around each other, the circling and weaving of the king and queen of the jungle. Never touching, but connected all the same. Finally, finally, I reached out. One small, smooth glide through the space between us, finishing the bridge, closing the gap. An explosion. I gasped as icy, fiery water slithered through me. Our threads began spinning faster and faster, rapidly thickening the connection between us.

I recoiled violently. No, no, this could not happen. There were forces at work that were much more powerful than I, or him, and they frightened me. I pulled back, straining to silence the great humming of energy crackling around us. Snap back to reality. Gravity falls back into place, the suspension sighs and lifts its enchantment, and time resumes. No one has noticed the extraordinary, extraordinary exchange we have had.

The wedding plans went on as planned. The house was constantly in a flurry of activity- there were caterers to be called, flowers to be arranged, dresses to be fitted. I often walked out to the beach alone, letting the cold water soak my feet.

He often came to sit by me. We talked. We talked about books and art and life and favorite foods. Sometimes, we just sat- never touching, never talking. The silence was alive- it curled and purred around our laps as we watched each other. But, it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t lustful. It was a bond. A bond like the one between lifelong friends or a mother and her newborn child. It felt right and good.

He married my sister. I wasn’t jealous. I clapped politely from my seat and whispered congratulations as I kissed her cheek. We didn’t look at each other once that day.

Seventeen years later. My sister’s car was hit by a truck skidding on an icy road. I went to the funeral alone, days after the ceremony had ended. I placed a single flower on the new grave and watered it with my own tears.

Ten more years passed. I used my savings to buy a rickety shack near the beach where my parents used to live. I took an indefinite vacation from work and spent my days there quietly, alone.

One morning, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it. He stood there, glowing in the light of the sun above the sea. I reached out, held his hand for the first time, and let him inside.