He loves her because she is not like the rest.
The novelty he notices in her is the very thing that repels all the other schoolboys. What they see is not what he sees. They see acrimony where he sees ingenuity and brilliance. They find her apperception of the world to be unnecessarily inscrutable, while he views her thoughts as a rather intriguing perspicacity. What they perceive as grotesque, he decries as resplendent, effulgent, complete and utter beauty.
He loves her collarbones, hiding beneath a warm layer of translucent skin and fat. He loves her freckles, delicate splatters of faded watercoloured daffodils. He loves her knees, intertwined with the other patterns of her skeletal outlining. He loves the way she bats her eyelashes, especially upon entering a room where millions of electrons undulate incessantly. He loves the reconditeness of her eyes, and the statuesque way in which she carries herself. He loves the dewy smoothness of her milky skin. He loves the creases that emerge on her forehead when she’s lost in ideation. He loves everything anyone has ever thought was anything less than ethereal.
She has been waiting for someone to see the things she could only hope existed within herself.
He is the only one to see.
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