She wasn’t beautiful.

When I first saw her, I thought that I was hit by lightning. Everything about her struck me: her face, her eyes, her hair, her body. Said aloud, anyone would have assumed she was a stunningly gorgeous girl. But that was the thunder on top of it all. She wasn’t beautiful. Sure, not many girls were. But for some reason, I wanted her to be one of the few exceptions.

She wasn’t friendly.

Every step I took had me drawing closer to her, nearing her short physique. And when I had her stopped in front of me, I said “Hi.” She looked up at me from under her long lashes, smiling harshly, as if she was annoyed. It took me a while to realize she had turned away.

She was absorbed in her own little world, staring off into space with a wide smile.

At times I would wonder if she was even on the same planet. She would sit quietly, eyes staring off into space, a wide, meaningless smile on her face. When someone pulled her back to reality, her evil stare set in, and she was once again plainly serious. Often mad.

She hates me with a passion.

I assume I’m the one she hates the most. I try to smile at her, but I feel as if it never appears on my face. For she shoots it down with her eyes much too quickly. I hate to have her angry, because I like her a lot. But she refuses my gestures, and doesn’t give much thought to my smile. If she did like me, like all of the other girls in this school, I feel I might not try so hard.

Hating me made me want her more.

It was what I hated the most. She didn’t want me, and that was the only thing that kept me going after her. I could have had any girl I wanted, but I chose her above all the others. Because somehow, I feel she needed me. Like she was holding everything back, and that I was going to be the first to let her let it out on me. Because somehow, I feel I needed her. And for some reason, I wanted her to be an exception.

But those were only her flaws.

For she was perfect in every way imaginable. Everyone envied her, everyone wanted to be her. To have her hair or her eyes; to have her skin or her body. They all wanted a part of her perfection, and everyone seemed to be muddled in one place, gawking at her. I said she wasn’t beautiful, because there were no words to describe neither her beauty nor her flaws. So I saw her as exotic. Nothing in the dictionary about exotic having to be beautiful.

But her beauty was hollow, for she was not one to have pleasant conversation with. Shooting insults at you, letting out her emotions on the first person who speaks, and assuming that everything is about her in a negative way. I knew it wasn’t her fault. So, that’s why I wanted to be the first to get close enough to touch her. The first one to bleed from her blows. I wanted to help her, in every way possible.

So that’s why I wanted her to be an exception to imperfection. For I wanted her to be beautiful.