Eyes Like Restraints

Some folks express themselves with words. Lane? He speaks through his eyes.

He didn’t have to say a thing for me to feel it the calmness in his gaze, steady yet gentle, focused yet soft. His eyes didn’t flit around; they were steady on me, patient and firm, almost like they were grounding me without ever laying a hand on me.

That day, I arrived for therapy five minutes early, which was a bit of a change for me. Normally, I enjoyed making others wait. There was something satisfying about being in control.

But that feeling didn’t apply with Lane.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I felt no urge to play games with him. I didn’t need to impress him or make him chase after me. All I wanted was to just… be there.

I knocked softly and stepped into the room when he called me in.

He was in his usual chair—dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, with a calm and quiet vibe.

Yet, something in the atmosphere felt different.

Or maybe I had changed.

I took my seat, hands folded neatly in my lap. I didn’t flirt or cross my legs like I usually would to catch attention. I just sat there.

Still.

Waiting.

Lane glanced up from his notes and gave a small nod. “You seem quiet today,” he observed.

“I feel... quiet,” I admitted.

He was silent for a moment, just looking at me.

And this gaze? It didn’t make me feel like just another object. It wasn’t the type of stare that made me shrink. Instead, it made me feel solid—like I truly existed.

“Any idea why you feel quiet or calm?” he asked after a pause.

I took a moment to think.

“I think... I’m just not trying so hard today,” I replied honestly. “I’m not trying to be something I’m not.”

“That's a good thing,” he affirmed.

I managed a small smile. “It’s a strange feeling, though. Like I don’t really know who I am when I'm not putting on a show.”

Lane put down his pen and leaned back a bit in his chair.

“You never have to perform here,” he reassured me. “Just be yourself.”

It seemed like a simple statement, but it hit me hard, like a wave crashing down.

Because honestly? I didn’t even know who that “self” was.

I shifted in my seat, feeling the quiet settle back in.

And then I realized something.

I liked the silence.

It wasn’t awkward or frigid. It felt whole—like a space where I could breathe without needing to fill it with charm or tricks.

I glanced at Lane again.

He was watching me—but not in a way that made me uncomfortable. His gaze was steady, thoughtful; it felt more like he was trying to understand than to judge.

And all of a sudden, I felt a strange warmth in my chest.

Not the kind I usually chased after—not that wild, restless craving that pushed me towards strangers or made me throw myself into someone’s arms.

This felt slower. Quieter.

It wasn’t about physical touch.

It was about being seen—and feeling safe.

I drew in a breath. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like if we weren’t in this room?”

His eyebrows rose slightly, but his tone remained calm. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my cheeks warming. “Like if we bumped into each other somewhere else. Just like regular people.”

Lane paused, considering. Then he said, “I think what we’re doing here is more significant than any version of ‘normal.’”

I looked down.

“That wasn’t the answer I expected,” I remarked, letting out a soft laugh.

“But it’s the truth,” he replied.

I nodded.

Deep down, I knew he was right.

What we had wasn’t normal—but it was real. And maybe that was better.

After the session, I didn’t rush to leave.

I lingered by the door, hand resting on the knob, and turned to him one last time.

His gaze met mine.

In that moment, I realized something that made my heart race:

I didn’t want him to touch me.

Not because I was scared.

Not because I wasn’t attracted to him.

But because his choice not to touch me carried weight.

It meant control.

It meant respect.

It meant safety.

And for someone like me—who had spent years being used and discarded—his quiet strength felt like the most powerful thing in the world.

His eyes didn’t plead.

His hands didn’t reach for me.

He just saw me. And created a space.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t crave to be wanted like a toy.

I wanted to be understood.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The air was cooler out there, and my mind was still racing.

Lane didn’t follow. He never did.

And I didn’t need him to.

Because somehow, his quiet had stayed with me all the way home.

Later that night, I lay in bed with the lights off, thinking about him.

Not about his hands.

Not about his mouth.

Not about his physical appearance.

Just… his eyes.

The way they held me without force.

The way they told me I didn’t have to put on a show.

The way they made me feel safe when I said things I was scared to admit to myself.

It frightened me a bit.

Because I didn’t understand what it meant to want someone without longing for their touch at the same time.

It was all new.

Unfamiliar.

But it felt like something real was starting to grow inside me.

And now

I didn't felt like running from myself