“Babe, why don’t you believe me when I tell you you’re beautiful?”
he asks, concern filling his expression.
“I don’t know”
I reply, eyes turned down attempting to mask my lie.
The truth?
Nobody has ever looked into my sleep deprived eyes at 2 am and told me they’re their favourite shade of blue. Nobody has ever held me with tears streaming down my face and said they’d do anything to see my smile again. Nobody has ever seen my naked face and dishevelled hair at the crack of dawn and said there’s no one they’d rather be with in that moment. The day I start believing I’m beautiful is the day someone tells me I am, in my most natural, most ugly moment. In the moment my face isn’t masked in makeup, hair done up and outfit put perfectly together. In the moments I’m not supposed to be beautiful.