Eros. Eyes of Obsession

Chapter 1 – Eros: Eyes of Obsession

By Sally.LE

Life is beautiful when seen through the eyes of a lover, but it becomes hell when seen through the eyes of obsession.

My name is Hazel.

I have lived my entire life in an orphanage. I never knew my parents, nor did I ever learn what it feels like to be chosen, to be wanted. Love, to me, was always something distant—something that belonged to other people. My life was shaped by absence, by quiet nights and unanswered questions, by a loneliness that settled into my bones and never truly left.

A person who has never known love does not recognize it when it arrives.

But the day my eyes fell upon him, something inside me shifted.

Blue eyes.

Black hair.

A presence that felt heavier than the air around him.

There was something unsettling about the way he stood—calm, confident, as if the world naturally made room for him. When he smiled, it wasn’t warm. It was slow. Controlled. As if he already knew something I didn’t.

And yet, my heart reacted before my mind could intervene.

If he loved me… would I always be able to see that smile?

Could you be mine?

The question escaped me unconsciously, barely formed, barely real.

He smiled again, tilting his head slightly, his hoarse voice cutting through the space between us.

“Excuse me?”

Heat rushed to my face. My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, embarrassed, grounding myself in routine.

“I’m sorry… I meant… your bill is fifty dollars.”

He paid with a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the counter without hesitation.

“Keep the change.”

His fingers brushed the counter—long, deliberate—before he gathered his alcoholic drinks and a pack of cigarettes. Then he turned and left, as if the moment had meant nothing.

But to me, it meant everything.

That day, I fell in love.

How did I know?

Because my breathing became shallow.

Because my body felt strangely warm, restless, alert.

Because the space he left behind felt painfully empty.

I hoped he would come back.

His name… if only I had asked his name.

Surely, he hadn’t gone far.

I stepped outside the store, my legs unsteady. The parking lot stretched wide and dim beneath the streetlights. Then I heard it—a low, masculine laugh.

It was him.

I wandered through the lot, pretending to look for something, until I saw him standing near a car. He was smoking, relaxed, talking to two people—a man and a woman. The woman stood too close. Her laughter was loud, her hands restless, touching him whenever she could.

I didn’t even know him.

I didn’t know his name.

And yet, anger burned through me—sharp, irrational, uncontrollable.

Who was she?

I approached slowly, my heart pounding. Perhaps she was his wife. Or his lover. And still… my feet carried me forward.

What mattered wasn’t who I was.

What mattered was who she was.

I forced myself to stand straighter, to breathe, to pretend I belonged there. His laughter grew clearer with every step.

“Excuse me,” I said softly.

He didn’t hear me.

I raised my voice, my pulse racing.

“Excuse me!”

They all turned toward me.

Not this.

This wasn’t what I wanted.

I wished time would freeze—or that they would disappear—so I could speak to him alone, without witnesses, without judgment.

The woman stared at me, her expression sharp with surprise.

“Who are you?”

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” I said, my voice trembling despite my effort to remain calm. “But I can’t accept such a generous tip.”

I held the money out to him, my fingers brushing the night air, my eyes fixed on his face.

And in that moment—standing under cold lights, surrounded by strangers—I realized something terrifying:

I was already lost.