He is a different kind of beautiful.

He is not a supermodel, and he’s not a movie star, and he’s not the standard type of beautiful.

All the elements are there. Gorgeous, blue eyes, like little aquamarines shining under the sunlight. His jawline is perfectly sculpted, and so is his torso, something of a work of Michelangelo.

But then everything else is off. He has this crooked smile that looks too big for his face, and his eyebrows are in desperate need of grooming, and his hair is slightly unruly, a strange, ruddy blonde color.

Despite everything, he is beautiful. His heart is as endless as the ocean that reflects in his eyes. His touch is kind and sweet, welcoming. His kindness knows no bounds.

He is everything to me, and he knows none of it.

I wish I could tell him how much I loved him, how much he truly means to me. I wish I could say so many things that have been hitched on my tongue for years, and I want so desperately to let loose the words caught prisoners in my chest.

And I swear, every time he holds me in his embrace, I want to, I want to, but there’s this fear that when I finally whisper those three little words into his small ears, he’ll think otherwise.

That’s the strange thing about love. It’s the internal battle of the “what ifs”. What if he doesn’t love me the way I love him?

But then, what if he does?

It’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’ll take that chance. I’ll muster all my courage and drown in his ocean blue eyes, and I’ll take a chance.

I would much rather grow old saying “I wish I hadn’t,” than “I wish I had.”
So when he walks up to me, and my blood stills under the pressure and a cage of a million butterflies has been unleashed in my stomach, I know exactly what I will do, and I will not regret a moment of it.