I always hated my freckles.
They sat on my face like splattered paint, something everyone noticed. Some girls would gawk at them and I remember thinking, “if only I could peel them off like stickers and give them away.” Their words went in one ear and out the other. My desire to have plain cheeks was screaming so loud I almost couldn’t hear their compliments.
You were different.
It was our first date. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of your perfectly chiseled face and almost missed it when you said, “your freckles.”
I had spent so much time on my hair and choice of clothing, and the one thing you noticed were my freckles. I hoped you wouldn’t talk about how many I had or ask why I even had any or what I did to make them look so faint or—
“They’re extremely cute.”
That’s all it took. My train of thoughts halted on its tracks and might have even started moving backwards in confusion. Your words didn’t go in one ear and out the other. They stayed there and sunk into my head, making themselves at home.
I heard you say these things time and time again, each time only feeling lovelier. You would trace my freckles with the tips of your fingers as you whispered how many beautiful constellations you could make out on my face without having to take a single step outside. You kissed each and every one until you had kissed them all twice and we were laughing out loud. You told me how each one was so lucky to be with me forever and that you could only hope for the same.
Then one day you left without warning. You placed the three bittersweet words on my shoulder and left a kiss on the right corner of my lips, then my cheek. When you kissed my cheek I was only left with my freckles. I was left with me. And just like that, I hated myself again.
I cried like a child that day and the many days that followed.
After a week, I finally got the courage to look myself in the face. I walked into the bathroom and quickly rinsed my puffy face with a cold, wet washcloth. I set it down when I was done and looked up. I saw my cheeks and the constellations you had made up on each side. The memory of you struck the worst kind of pain upon my heart and I broke down for the hundredth time. I looked up to try and see the stars again, but I only saw my tear drops smearing the splattered paint that had been sitting on my face all along. I always hated my freckles.