Behind Her Skin

She always looks so good in the morning. Her eyes—bright, wide, sparkling in ways that almost feel alien—catch the light and hold it like they own it. It’s hard not to stare, even when I try to look away. There’s this quiet gravity about her, the kind that pulls attention without asking for it, without knowing it herself.

I wonder sometimes what it’s like, going about town, drawing all those looks without meaning to. I see glances, fleeting, curious, maybe admiring, but she carries them all without effort. And I know, even on days when the world notices her a little too much, that none of them see the truth behind her skin. The quiet, unspoken layers, the depth of everything she hides and everything she is.

I do get looks every once in a while, sure. But she has all their eyes. And me too—probably more than she knows. I’m not sure how anyone could resist, if they could see the way her mind flickers behind that gaze, or the way she tilts her head just slightly when she’s thinking about something no one else can follow.

It’s strange, really. The world might glimpse her surface, but I see the whole thing: every curve of thought, every shadow, every spark. And it leaves me dumbfounded. God’s best work, bar none. And this masterpiece? It works on me, every single time, like gravity I can’t escape, like a song stuck in my chest that I wouldn’t want to forget even if I could.