She hated the looks.
The glances.
Every set of eyes that laid themselves upon her, made her feel weak.
Rather than a master piece.
She saw mistakes, lines where the artist got messy and didn't bother to fix them.
She stared at herself more than anyone else.
She didn't catch herself doing so, like she would catch others.
No one saw her eyes.
Her appearance was the main idea.
The way she walked.
Awkwardly, hesitation filling every step, casually leaning the other way for the urge to run and hide was always at its peak.
The way she spoke.
Hurried words and unfinished sentences, anxiety having a turn on each letter that left her mouth, she hated speaking but she always did it.
The way her laughter could fill an empty room, in an obnoxious way not the adorably flustered way.
The way her hands would subtly lay out in front of her or hide themselves deep inside pockets.
Her hands were a weapon she used among herself.
Her eyes merely pinpointing the targets.
