It was weird, the way the rest of the world could see something that you yourself couldn't.
Like, I look in the mirror and there's - yeah, there's a girl there. And...yes, those eyes are dark, and that hair is...kinda curly, if it's behaving, and that skin is pale, freckled -
And I'm seeing the things I need to do to get to beautiful. Pluck that, moisturise that, define that, conceal that (some mornings, conceal all of it, please)
The amount of times I look at myself and I think that I need to be fixed. That I need to be overhauled. That I just want to close my eyes and put myself in someone else's hands, let them make it all ok.
The worst part? I know I'm pretty.
But I also know that isn't enough. I know that pretty just doesn't cut it.
So I'll still be there, looking in the mirror, lining my eyes, extending my lashes, wondering how much foundation to wear (do I like my freckles? I think I do, but I don't like the blush that bleeds through behind them), wondering if those bags underneath my eyes will ever go away.
I think I have fairly high self-esteem.
Except that wanting to bridge the gap between pretty and beautiful makes me hate myself; I should be happy already, I should be happy with pretty.
I'm not.
Until now, she'd never thought of herself as pretty.