But his eyes. Oh god his eyes. When he was happy they were a crystal blue that reminded you of flowers and poetry and that always had crinkles at the corners, matched with his perfect laugh.

When he was angry they were a murky gray. And storm over the sea that threatens to swallow you whole without a second thought and then spit up again, broken and bruised.

When he was afraid they were like ice. Cold and harsh. Frozen in his attempts to not show weakness. Frozen in his attempt to save the world. The world except himself.

But when he was sad. Oh god when he was sad. Maybe it was the film of water over his eyes or maybe not. But his eyes.... The color of the sky just before the sunset. The type of blue that drags its fingers down your spine and holds you close. The type of blue that is painted onto a canvas in a half hearted attempt at art.

When he looked at me, the way he looks at her now, you could see a future. You could see a little apartment and happiness. The color of love.

I think the only time I hated his eyes were that day. The day I found out he liked her. They weren't blue like the sky. Icy and cold. They weren't dark and cloudy. Not crystal blue. They were foggy. Dead. Helpless. Emotionless. Loveless.