It's ordinary to love the beautiful,
but it's beautiful to love the ordinary.
And that's why Sophie's love for me felt extraordinary.
This Sunday morning wasn't like the others.
It wasn't just a lifeless rest day—it meant something.
I woke up to find her still asleep on my lap, breathing gently, alive in the softest way.
If I could write, I would write about her beauty. But how do writers do it?
How do they trap something so alive with something as flat as ink?
Still, I picked up a pen and an old notebook.
And in that moment, words poured out of me.
I guess I can write.
I guess I can express how beautiful she is.
But even then, the problem remains—
no words are beautiful enough for her.
Her eyes—
deep as the ocean,
dark as the night,
beautiful like the moon,
and somehow, still brighter than any star.
Her smile—
always the same, always perfect.
The kind that makes you fall, again and again.
Her lips—
softer than clouds,
redder than roses.
She's just… perfect.
And I still wonder—
do I deserve someone like her?
She's like a dream I want to hold on to.
But like every good dream, I know this one has an end aswell.
I didn't even notice when she woke up.
We were just… there, looking into each other's eyes.
Me lost in hers. Her lost in mine.
"What are you writing?" she whispered.
"Nothing," I replied.
She tugged my ear and leaned in.
"Don't play smart with me, idiot. I do bite."
We both laughed.
Then she pushed me down and sat on top of me.
Snatched the book from my hands and started reading.
She paused. Smiled.
Only said one word:
"Beautiful."
"Thanks, I guess," I mumbled.
She looked at me, eyes narrowed. "No seriously—how can a lifeless guy like you write something this beautiful?"
"I don't know," I laughed.
She set the book aside, wrapped her arms around my neck, and teased,
"Whoever you wrote this about… she must be really beautiful."
I wish she realized—
those words barely captured even a quarter of her beauty.
I wish she knew I wrote it for her.
We all have regrets.
Mine was not telling her.
Hers, maybe, was not realizing it.
I started playing with her hair. "You're bad for my health."
We laughed again.
And then—
I don't know why.
Maybe it felt right.
Maybe I couldn't hold it in anymore.
But I said it.
I said the words I am scared of infact terrified.
"I love you."
Her face turned bright red.
She quickly covered my mouth. "Idiot, shut up."
I pulled her hand away, and said it again.
"I love you."
She covered my mouth once more, almost panicking now.
"Shut up, shut the hell up! You don't know what you're saying!"
But I did.
And for once, I wasn't afraid of the truth.
I looked her in the eyes and said it again.
She suddenly bit my neck—
not hard, just enough.
Then shouted,
"Shut up, idiot! You don't know anything! You don't understand anything! So just shut up—you lifeless fool!"
Silence followed.
We sat there for what felt like an hour—both too full of emotion to speak.
Then, softly, she said,
"You should probably leave."
So I did.
But the truth is—
I don't regret a thing.
I'm like a mistake.
Important, maybe. But not wanted.
Not remembered.
Not loved.
Maybe that's why people avoid me.