(Boyfriend) was more attractive than me by all accounts, so I often found myself wondering why he'd decided to settle for someone as average as myself. It wasn't that I was Quasimodo or anything, I just definitely wasn't Esmeralda. I had weird short spiky hair that I could only just fit into two little ponytails, I weighed 75 kilos when I should've weighed 60, and my hands were freakishly small and chubby. My father used to tell me that I had what his mother called Little Hands Syndrome, otherwise known as Mouse Hands Condition. (Boyfriend) often found this endearing, my Miniature Hands, but all I used to think of was how ridiculous I'd look with a wedding ring.
(Boyfriend) was undeniably beautiful. He was soft where I couldn't be, and hard and angular where I wasn't. He had girls dropping all around him, winking at him with flirtatious smiles and cherry red lips, and he didn't even notice. I could only imagine what they must have thought when they saw me, holding his hand. Because he was so perfect, and was like a perfectly mediocre sidekick.
It really was always me holding his hand. He always had a problem with touching me. Unless it was to get something from me. I used to think that that kind of thing was love, but it took me three years to realise that it was only a transparent alternative that I'd become addicted to before I could realise what was happening.
