There was, this girl I met, back in university. She was everything different and everything that I found completely captivating. She was beautiful. But not in the way that others think so.
She didn’t have hair that made golden waves with no frizz. She didn’t haveflawless skin. Her eyes weren’t the colour of blue diamonds. Her smile was crooked and her teeth weren’t perfectly straight. Her lips weren’t peachy and full, they were quite chapped and thin, but the nice chapped and thin.
She didn’t have a melodic laugh, nor did she have modest thoughts. She didn’t have the best clothes in the world, or lots of money.
But she was beautiful. In the way we see the sun through the grass at the end of the day. Like the way the full moon illuminates the entire street on the walk home. She was beautiful in the way rain droplets trail down the window.
She was beautiful in the way she looked when she read books on a Sunday. How her face was riddled with concentration and how she bit her lip and when something surprising happened, she’d raise her eyebrows and put the book down for a minute.
She was beautiful in the way she slept, how I’d cradle her in my arms and make her feel safe. How her face was peaceful and how she pouted slightly as she slept. She was beautiful with her morning hair and with the way she would refuse to wake up until she’d had a cup of green tea.
She was beautiful in the way she hid her face with her hands when I pointed a camera to her and said “Harryyy, please nooo.” But I always did. Because I loved how she blushed. I loved how even though sometimes she responded to the harsh expectations of society she was still beautiful.
She was beautiful because she didn’t mind all that much at her jiggly thighs. She was beautiful because she wasn’t all that fussed about having a flat stomach, she liked food. But she was perfect. She was perfect to me and that’s all that mattered.
It seemed like years we were together. Spending sleepless nights lying together in the soft covers and staring up at the lanterns above the bed, telling each other our deepest secrets. Cracking jokes. And when the clock his 2am, she always changed. Like her inner self came out completely and she’d open herself out to me. She’d tell me what she was thinking, feeling. She’d tell me everything because she trusted me. And she’d cry sometimes.
She was beautiful when she cried. Something I found confusing at someone who was so broken could be so beautiful when she cried.
She was beautiful when we fought. When she’d scream at me but I couldn’t help but laugh because she was so cute when she got angry. How she’d try to push at my chest and push me over but she was too tiny to do so. So I’d just laugh. And eventually she’d crack that crooked smile. She was beautiful.
Everything about her I guess was captivating. But why is it that her life ending so…quickly?
Why did it have to be when I couldn’t be there with her?
Why, after everything we’d been through. Why did it have to be from the harsh words of society, that she had to take her own life?
Why someone so damn beautiful could respond to society’s stupid definition of beautiful.
She was beautiful to me and that’s all that should’ve mattered.
All I could think about is how we strive to meet perfection to everyone else, we look for everyone’s approval. But the chances are, to someone, you’re already perfect. You’re already loved but you just don’t realize.
She didn’t choose the most terrible way to die though. She didn’t cut herself, she didn’t fill her body with pills. No.
She jumped.
Straight off the biggest bridge in London. She’d always told me that jumping off a bridge on sunset would be the best view. The last thing you’d see is the vibrant orange streaks across the sky at the end of the day.
Nevertheless she jumped. And when I found out all I could do was blame myself.
For not telling her how much I loved her enough. Or how much I loved her jiggly thighs, crooked smile and frizzy hair. How much I loved the way he talked, how she read books and how she needed that cup of green tea in the morning. How beautiful she was in everything she did.
She died loved.
She wasn’t society’s idea of beautiful.
But she was my idea of beautiful.
And she was you.
You were every definition of beautiful for me.
I wish you didn’t. But I haven’t forgotten about you. In fact I think about you every damn day.
I love you. And to me, you’re beautiful.
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This was to bloody beautiful. Here *Hands tissue* cry with me. This was made by paul-and-his-bitches (I love the name btw)
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One Direction Sad Preferences
Fanfiction*A LOT OF THESE AREN'T MINE!* I will try to write the author if I can :) If you have any short sad stories you want me to add please inbox me:) Thanks!
