the snapshots of our truer self.

she had a wall full of postcards from all over the world. many eyes had gazed on them, but never asked the story behind each one. then he arrived and read them, asking about the life behind the signatures, and she told him. she told him everything she had ever known, and even the interpreted spaces in-between. because sometimes what is written between the lines is more of the truth than the actual words which translate into full sentences.

life is like that, you know? the few, fleeting moments of vulnerability are as snapshots to a sincerer self - truer than the whole sum of an existence.

she knew this very well, and when that one postcard fell from the wall, she reached past him to pick it up. if only she could have paused in that moment and remained there for however long it takes to feel the heartbeat of another. if she could, she would have matched her's with his. but there was no metronome to guide her, so she pressed the postcard back onto the wall and sat down.

as he lay reading, in a stillness she remained, capturing as many glances of him as she could without being too obvious. she wanted to memorize the intricacies of his face. down to the slightest imperfections. she had looked many times now, but had never seen. this time she sought to render it impossible for her to become disillusioned into thinking he was any less human than she.
                   infatuation tends to blur the lines of humanity.

referring to the stories she had accumulated, "aren't they just beautiful? all of them."

"you are beautiful."

she takes in his words, but rejects them. she knew she was becoming beautiful, but becoming and being are two different things. so she brushed over his adoration as if she didn't hear. the truth was, she knew if she said 'thank you' it would be as if she'd done something to deserve those three words. but she didn't do anything. nothing at all. in actuality:



                                                he was making her beautiful.