I looked at him.
“What makes him beautiful?” I thought to myself.
I couldn’t seem to formulate an answer at first. I kept on staring at him, hoping something would give me a clue. I wasn’t expecting a sign, after all he couldn’t see me. From where I was sitting I was well hidden, allowed to observe his every move with tender eyes. I had seen him many times before, sitting on the exact same bench. It was the only bench in the neighborhood which was in somewhat of a proper condition. That is, you could actually sit on it without risking your life.
It’s strange though, observing someone you know from a distance. It feels like cheating. Somehow you’re let in to the vulnerable world of the other. The mother peaking through the slightly open door of her child’s bedroom, watching him play with his imaginary friend. Overhearing your friend, the secretly aspiring singer pouring her soul out during auditions, making you realize you never knew she owned such kind of talent. You don’t want to be caught yet you’d like to share the moment with them.
My thoughts returned me back to reality, back to him, lurking in the distance. I don’t think I know what made him beautiful. Maybe he was beautiful because of how at peace he was with himself. Maybe it was his dark brown hair and piercing green eyes. Maybe it was the way he judged no one, the way you could talk to him without being the slightest bit scared of an undertone unexpectedly jumping out at you. Maybe it was the way he dressed in the morning to go off to his prestigious job.
Perhaps it was all of these things neatly yet not perfectly packaged which made him beautiful in more profound ways. Perhaps it was because despite all the flaws he had, for the first time in my life I didn’t seem to mind. For the first time in my life I hadn’t just found physical beauty but I had found beauty in someone’s soul. As cliché as it might sound, maybe that was what love was all about.