Opiaoh-pee-uh

n. The ambiguous intensity of eye contact. So much can be said in a glance. You feel such intensity, looking someone in the eye—somehow both intrusive and vulnerable. Their pupils glittering black, bottomless, and opaque.

The eye is a keyhole through which the world pours in, and a world spills out. For a few seconds, you can peek through into a vault that contains everything they are—their vulnerability, their pain, their humor. But you're still standing on the outside of the house.

Eye contact isn't really contact at all. It's only ever a glance—a near-miss—that you can only feel as it slips past you. There's so much we keep in the back room; so much that others never get to see.

You too are peering out from behind your own door. They can see you more clearly than you ever could. Yours is the only vault you can't see into. We're all just exchanging glances, trying to tell each other who we are. Feeling around in the darkness.