I was late. I had missed a period.
My palms were sweating as I knocked on the door. No response. Was I too late? Was I in the wrong class again? Taking a deep breath, I knocked louder this time—hopefully loud enough. Still no answer.
Finally, the door creaked open, and about thirty pairs of curious eyes locked onto me. The teacher said something, but my mind was buzzing from all the staring. My mouth was dry, my palms clammy, and my face burning. A small voice inside reminded me to introduce myself as a Humanities student, so I did.
Laughter erupted.
What did I do now?
I blinked, confused, and looked at the teacher. Even he was smiling. His amused expression made me more self-conscious. Seeing my clueless face, he repeated his question: “What is your name?”
Oh God. My face turned crimson with embarrassment.
Muttering my name, I hurried to the seat assigned to me, my heart pounding. I could still feel the weight of different gazes—curious, mocking, amused, indifferent… And then, I met his eyes.
A chill ran down my spine.
Self-conscious, I straightened my posture, set my bag down, and took out my books, but his cold gaze never left me. His unrelenting stare froze me in place. Had he witnessed my entire humiliating entrance? My first day of college was nothing like what I had imagined.
As the days passed, I started adjusting, but his gaze never let me fully settle in. His black eyes, tinged with a bluish-green hue, followed my every move. He watched me from afar as if I were some fascinating piece of art. No gesture of mine went unnoticed.
At first, his presence made me uneasy. His hot gaze trailed after me whenever I talked to my friends. Sometimes, I caught a red glow in his eye—was that anger? Was he mad at me? Or did he have his own reasons for that strange glimmer?
By the time autumn arrived, I had grown bolder. I started throwing him side-eyes, meeting his stare head-on. I knew he would never approach me. He only watched. So, I laughed louder, joked more freely, and stopped hiding in my timid shell. I began holding his gaze with confidence, even raising an eyebrow at him sometimes. On particularly good days, I would even wave.
The world kept moving, but he and I remained constant.
I had grown accustomed to his silent presence, comfortable under his watchful eye. While my friends despised him, calling him a watchdog, I had started to accept him. They would mock him, splatter paint on him, or twist his head when I wasn’t around. Poor thing. Not only did he have just one eye, but he also couldn’t even speak to defend himself.
I resented their antics.
So what if he had only one eye?
Two years passed, and I had changed. His silent presence no longer unnerved me—it reassured me. I no longer panicked under scrutiny or shrank from judgmental eyes. He had seen me at my weakest, my most awkward, yet never wavered. Without a single word exchanged, he had taught me an important lesson: not every gaze is meant to judge; some are there to protect.
Yes, my One-Eyed Lover was none other than the CCTV camera that had watched over me all along.
Two years later, the timid girl who had stumbled into college stepped out with confidence and poise, no longer fearing the weight of watching eyes.
