She laughs along with her friends, her laugh a beautiful melody spreading all over the room. As usual, every boy turned to look at her, not in irritation, but in awe. It was the same response she received every time she did something so ordinary, like when she sang softly when she thought no one was listening; when she was seen dancing in the music room; when she looked at you, her face full of a subtle beauty; and even when she was simply sitting down during class, writing in the small notebook she always brought with her.
With her long brown hair, wide and innocent-looking eyes, cute nose, thin pink lips, flawless face, slim—yet curvy—physique, and angelic personality, she was the epitome of beauty.
Everyone loves her. She is friends with everybody, almost every guy in school likes her, and all the girls admire her and want to be her.
And of course, I am not an exception.
It’s unfair that she has everything—the smarts, the looks, the perfect personality, the perfect family—while I can’t compare to her even in the slightest bit.
Frustration and irritation bubble up in me like lava about to burst from an active volcano.
Every time I would look at her, I would just be reminded of all the reasons why I’m not content with myself and what I have. She is the living, breathing embodiment of all that I want to be and all that I want to have.
I sigh and glance at Miss Perfect again. She has a smile on her face—a shy and lovely smile that brightens the room—and I have no idea if ears are just messing with me or if the guys really sigh when they see her smile.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. I look away and fumble with the bracelet on my wrist.
My ears are messing with me.