the wild week

06. florence

anya is objectively so ugly. her nose has all the wrong angles, acne textures her cheeks and her hair is always this big curly mess that she doesn't even seem to care about brushing out. her clothes are weird vintage pieces, incredibly out of fashion. yet, she's so fucking beautiful i can barely switch my gaze away when she looks at me.
i should be prettier. my makeup is flawless, i have a button nose and my hair looks anglic. i wear perfectly colour cordinated clothes and i'm always the first one to get the trends. still, i'm not even close to being as perfect as her.
it's pissing me off.
all my life, i've been striving to be beautiful, putting my arse into it. and anya doesn't even try. she's so fucking ugly but perfect at once. i want to puke into the clear lake water.
'cece, what's up?' she laughs.
'nothing,' i reply, kicking my feet off the stony bed and floating on my back in the water. anya does the same beside me; her fingers touches mine.
i close my eyes. i don't see her inperfect beauty, i don't see the boys on the beach, i just feel the sun on my body and the lukewarm water all around me.
i want to stay in this moment forever.
but if there's one thing i've learned, it's that moments like this barely ever lasts.
'quit slacking!' shouts sid from the beach. 'we need help raising the tent!'
'we're sleeping under the stars, shut up!'
'no way in hell i'm sleeping on the ground!'
'you're going to either way,' says anya, but quietly as fuck so sid for sure doesn't hear her.
'you need to talk louder,' i tell her.
'you need to talk quieter,' she replies.
'i guess we both have shit to work on.'
then we just lay there. after a couple of minutes, we swim back to the beach anyway and anya helps sid with building up the tent while jone has gone to search for wood for the fire. i sit down on a sun-warm stone and airdry while watching them work. there's something so peaceful about it — i could watch the scene for hours. all while hearing the birds chirping in the trees above and feeling the sun's rays warming my back.
why have i never appreciated nature? why did anya have to convince me to do this? i'm loving it already.
'nature is great,' i tell jone when he comes back.
'tell me that again in seven days,' he replies, doesn't sound mad at all. rather pitying — and that's maybe ever worse.