She's hiding something. Something.

Burning in those eyes is a Hell that she buries behind the brown, but I can see it.

She laughs a little too loud and smiles a little too hard to be completely sincere all the time. I'm assuming she holds a customer service position, the way she can flip a switch between painfully polite and...not rude, but definitely outspoken and facetious. The kind of person that will smile in your face but mock you when you turn a corner as soon as you do something stupid.

She can make you laugh at nothing and everything at the same time. A great sense of humor, especially if you get her going. She makes the time fly if you just listen to her ramble and make light of her crazy life. I think it's therapeutic for her, making us all laugh. It gives her a sense of fulfillment and purpose, because from what she says, her home life is...not so great.

She likes literally every kind of music, too. She made me a playlist once. It had everything. Frank Sinatra, Iggy Azalea, Evanescence, Tchaikovsky, Foster the People, Queen, Sam Smith to name a few. I've never seen such a schizophrenic iPod in my life. She has her dislikes, of course, but generally she just likes...music.

She's quite the actress as well; she can put it on like the world is perfect as it crumbles beneath your feet and could convince a Republican to raise taxes if she had to, but only if it's convenient for her. She can smile away a broken bone if it'll make you shut up for five minutes.

But that Hell exists behind those eyes. Eyes can't lie. A window to the soul, isn't that what they say? And that's what draws me to her. She has these layers upon layers of cement and pain and love and hopelessness and fear and greatness and power. And I want to tear those layers to shreds with my fingernails until they're bloody and broken if it means finding out why she isn't happy, and why she keeps waking up with that fake smile plastered onto her face. I want to see her Hell, because if I can do that, maybe I can show her Heaven.