i’m usually sitting in the front of the van, by the driver, on the passenger princess seat, and we have this uncle who comes to receive his daughter in the evening. he doesn't even look at me, or the driver, for that matter. he has rarely—if ever—shown interest in anything but the sliding door of our van. his eyes look toward the door, waiting for it to open, and then toward his daughter getting off. i bet he doesn't even look inside the van; he doesn't feel the need to.
his mind is singular, and his eyes are tunnel-visioned.
i have looked at him for days, but alas, he has paid me no mind. i guess that's love, in some sense of the word.
to have eyes for someone.
and only them.
need i say more?