he was the kind of beautiful he would never admit to himself or to anyone else, the kind nobody else would ever mention to him in passing. she wouldn't really notice it, either, but she kind of knew it too, deep inside where she kept her most precious secrets, and she would only know anyways if she took the time to look into his face and study those eyes, and oh! oh, those creases by the side of his mouth because he was always, always laughing, even when he was mad he was laughing, like he was born into this world to be happy, born to be so much freakin’ happier than everybody else that for a second, she wanted something, she wanted what he had, but she didn’t really know what it was.

and he had brown eyes, most definitely brown eyes, except they're so much more than just brown eyes it feels wrong to say just ‘brown’. a bajillion gajillion people have brown eyes, but his, they hold so much and they mean so much more- they're empty and they're deep and they hold so much promise, like a locked diary that she once had the keys to but lost so much years ago she can’t even count the years on her fingers, and she can see so many colors in them- purple, golden-blue-ish colors with pink tints like the sky before a sunrise which aren't very manly colors, so she kept her mouth shut.

he was that kind of beautiful. the kind with chestnut-brown hair, except darker than that, except not really chestnut- it was warmer than that, really, and darker than that too, like the kind of gooey-warm-piping-hot melting mess of a marshmallow over a fire, the kind that burns her fingertips and leaves black stains on her jeans but melts perfectly in her mouth, except marshmallows aren't brown by any stretch of the imagination, and that's the feeling she know no one else would understand- so she keep it to herself.

and if she ever told anyone, they would think- "oh. another giggling girl going after the coolest basketball jock." that’s all they would think, she could see it in their faces they were thinking that, but she doesn't say anything because what if she's wrong? what if they're thinking about how strange she looked, or what was for lunch, or how long chemistry homework will take them, so she swallows her words because she knows they don't know

that he's really his kind of beautiful, not that kind of beautiful that people say only when they're trying to say ugly in a kinder way, but really, truly, his own kind of beautiful,

and

now she knows exactly what she wants.