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Imperfections

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There is a girl, and I love her.
We don’t talk very often; only ever between classes, and not for long. Maybe on field trips, once in a while.
She’s always happy, always kind, always helpful. She’s always laughing or drawing or cracking a joke.
But sometimes, I see her talking with one of the teachers: close to tears, all happiness or laughter gone. And I think that these moments are when I love her most. When all her masks are gone, and she’s open and vulnerable.
I want to wrap her in my arms and tell her that everything’s okay, that it will all turn out all right. I want to protect her from the world and its cruelties. But I don’t know her well enough for that. I can come up and joke with her, compliment her on her sketches, and ask her for help. But I can’t be what I want to be for her. I want to hug her and tell her that she’s amazing and beautiful and that people care about her, me included.
But I can’t just come up to her and say that. If I did, it would be at a time when her walls were up, and those walls might keep negative things out, but they also don’t let anything positive in. My words would fall on deaf ears. She wouldn’t mean to ignore them. She has too much kindness and consideration for that.
I love this girl, because she’s so broken and weak. I love her little insecurities and I love her weakness and I love her. But I can’t tell her. Because, really, it’s not that kind of love. No, I love her like a sister, except more. She twists my emotions into indiscernible knots, plays with my feelings unintentionally just by simply being.
There is a girl and I love her. But I can’t tell her because she wouldn’t understand.
I want to tell her that she is amazing the way she is, that all her flaws and imperfections are what make her perfect in my mind. I want her to know that… Well. It doesn’t really matter, does it? I can’t tell her.