Beyond Words

The Power of a Prolonged Gaze

In the heart of a fluorescent-lit lecture hall with clinical white walls, my fiction writing professor, an ex-punk Buddhist, introduced our class to an intimacy exercise that completely challenged our relationship to vulnerability.

It seemed simple on the surface: In pairs, spend 5 minutes gazing into a fellow classmate’s eyes. Then write about them. Around the room, everyone squirmed in their seats and a rush of anxiety went through me. This exercise went against the typical dynamics of a university lecture, where everything felt scripted, guarded, and reduced to intellectual discourse.

Each student partnered up with whoever sat next to them, including me. More than a decade later, I still remember her face. Mostly because her irises glimmered so intensely bright blue that it scared me to look at them. Before that moment, I never looked into anyone’s eyes so intentionally. Eye contact made me nervous. I hated it.

But in that sterile lecture hall, with the timer set,  the room of about 200 students shifted from a sea of disconnection to a silent intimacy, as we stared into each other’s eyes. My legs trembled. I might have stopped breathing. When your face is inches away from a stranger’s face like that, you can’t hide, and neither can they. Every gulp, giggle, smile, twitch, and mouth curve is witnessed. And I ached inside waiting for the seconds to speed up. 

Those five minutes were more than merely eye contact, they transcended the day-to-day quick glances we were all used to. A bridge between two souls. And I felt like it gave me a glimpse into the depth of my classmate. It made me curious about her history. I wanted to ask questions about her emotions, fears, longings, and insecurities. Everything that usually feels too hard to talk about, things that words often fail to convey. But I also wondered what she thought about me. The possibilities made my jaw clench and stomach somersault.

To me, being seen felt more like a threat. Visibility meant an opportunity for judgment, rejection, and harm. It also meant vulnerability, which I equated with weakness. At the time, I was skilled at deflecting attention and avoiding eye contact. I wondered if she could relate. But she looked so light and at ease, I could only assume that wasn’t the case.

Meanwhile, the eye contact made me feel like my entire inner world was being unveiled. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to hide. Simultaneously, there was something special about feeling seen in that way. A push and pull feeling, I imagine some people might feel when perceived. But as the seconds slowly passed, the intensity dissipated, and I let myself breathe. While she quietly smiled at me, I felt a smidge of my emotional armor gently fall away.

Eventually, the timer went off. Collective sighs of relief and big smiles filled the room. And I could finally retreat back into myself. But it was also time to write. I tapped my pen while the words stumbled in my mind. I couldn’t capture with language the essence of the connection we had just shared. I still can’t.

Looking back, I don’t actually remember what I wrote. But what I do remember is how after that day, we never spoke again. Sometimes we would find each other in shared spaces around campus and acknowledge each other with an awkward wave. We probably could have been friends if either of us made the effort. How odd to share an intimate moment like that and have nothing to say to each other after, or even a desire to say anything, I always thought. 

That experience made me realize how powerful silence and shared gazes can be; how they can transcend the limits of language, how wonderful but weird vulnerability is, and how fragile, fleeting, and difficult connection can be.

I carry with me that unspoken conversation, that unfiltered gaze, and the most profoundly human five minutes I’ve ever had in a classroom; it’s lingered with me ever since.

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