Keeho

I don't understand what they see in him. Every time someone sees him for the first time, there's that awkward silence... that stupid pause in the conversation. As if his beauty pushes them back. They say things like: "he's unreal," "he looks like something out of a magazine," "I've never seen a face like that." And it's true. I know it. She has a precise beauty. Impossible. Eyes like cut glass, skin that not even the light dares to touch. Soft brows, a defined jaw, lips that seem made to be kissed—or to break promises. But I don't know... I liked the way she looked at me better. Her eyes weren't perfect. But they were real. They weren't that big, or that bright... but there was something about them that this guy doesn't have. With him, everything is impeccable. Too symmetrical. Even when he cries, he looks good. And that infuriates me. I once told him that she had a more sincere beauty. That she didn't need that doll-like face to attract attention. He stayed silent, of course. Like always. But I saw him breathe differently. As if something had slowly broken in him. Another night, as he took off his shirt, I told him his body was beautiful, but not sexy. That she had curves that knew how to move. He stayed silent, but he didn't take it off again that week. It's not that I'm lying. It's that I'm saying what hurts the most. Because someone so perfect shouldn't make me feel so... small. And yet, he does. All the time. That's why I flatten him a little, every day. Not to break him, but to level us. I told him his nose was "so perfect," like surgery. That his mouth "looked designed, not felt." That his beauty was empty. She had imperfections that knew how to linger on the skin. He just looks like an image. As if I could wipe it away with a towel. And yet... he never left. What bothers me the most is that if he leaves, I'll never see something so perfect come near me again.