I’m usually big on eye contact. It’s my way of grounding myself, of connecting, of saying, I see you. But here in Kathmandu, I notice myself shrinking away from gazes. Out on the streets, it’s become a kind of survival tactic. The sellers, the rickshaw drivers, the guys hissing “marijuana, hashish?”—it’s a constant barrage, an assault of offers, calls, demands. Meeting eyes feels like opening a door I don’t want to open, so I keep my head down, my gaze skimming past faces, past the pull of eyes that might mean conversation, transaction, entanglement.

What’s strange is how the habit lingers. I slip into a café, finally safe from the streets, and realize I’m still avoiding eyes. The waiter who brings my coffee, the stranger at the next table, even the woman who smiles at me when our eyes almost meet—I catch myself looking away. I’ve carried the avoidance inside with me, even when I don’t need it anymore.

And I think about what that means. How easy it is for defense to become habit. How quickly vigilance hardens into withdrawal. I miss the intimacy of looking straight into someone’s eyes. I miss the simple exchange of presence. And yet, here, for now, I keep looking away.

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