I think, depending on the mood, we can go anywhere when we talk online.
For some reason, when I talk with you, I'm somewhere far away.
The skies are a bright shade of blue and white wisps of clouds drift, not blocking the shining sun.
What does block it is the ripe apple tree we sit below, an orange-white-and-yellow plaid picnic blanket on top of us and a long-forgotten basket discarded beside us that we don't care for at the moment.
You caress my cheek. "You're lovely, baby. Beautiful smile, a way with words, you're gorgeous."
"I hate my smile, especially my grin. It's weird and my teeth are misaligned."
You wrap your arm around my waist, pulling me closer and kissing my cheeks gently. "Smiles that aren't perfect are the attractive ones.
That person doesn't care about looking pretty, about posing, just showing they're happy. Which is what smiles are for, right?"
I want to say nothing but I want to argue.
"I wanna be pretty when I smile anyways. Not like a cat rubbed against my eyes."
You take a beat to reply.
"You are pretty when you smile."
YOU ARE READING
Cerulean
Non-FictionMy thoughts, depression and short stories need a place to stay. (Trigger Warning: may potentially contain explicit content such as depression, suicide, substance abuse, etc.)
