"Turn off the lights."
"No, I want to see you."
"You won’t like what you’ll see."
"I’ll be the judge of that."
"…"
"You’re beautiful."

We didn’t do anything that night. Her moans, whimpers and tears are not because we’re naked and I’m halfway inside her. But because I told her something she never heard from anybody before. And she is truly beautiful. For her body was like an unfinished sculpture – uneven in some parts, rough and rigid like she was made from children’s clay instead of marble. I was the one who saw the beauty in it, the first man (and hopefully the last). She is perfect. She’s a masterpiece that doesn’t need finishing touches. She’s beautiful just the way she is.

"You’re beautiful."*

I keep looking at myself in the mirror to see what he sees in me. I couldn’t find it. I tried to look at my body to find the reason why he said that. There’s none. And I feel happy rather than sad because I couldn’t find it. There’s always something different about his eyes anyway. The way his irises are too big and too black like a pair of black holes that will **** everything he laid his eyes on. Maybe he did. His eyes ****** out my imperfections. And I’m glad he sees everything differently. I needed that. I need him, I guess. I’m beautiful. I’m a masterpiece.