She is beautiful.

Her

Across the room I see her chestnut hair spilling down her face as she presses the warm mug to her lips. Her chilling forest eyes bear a striking contrast to her richly tanned skin and outfit of off-whites and browns. She is beautiful. In every aspect of the word, she is beautiful.

The soft chime of the door opening makes her focus quickly raise from her beverage to the entrance. Her lips tug into a whole-hearted smile, flashing her stunning dimples. I wish that I could make her smile like that. She deserts her mug and skips to the door with the grace of a ballerina and the giddiness of a young child, my eyes following her across the coffee shop.

My happy mood drains like a kitchen sink as I watch her jump into the arms of him. Him with his perfect hair and razor-sharp jawline. Him with the girl of my dreams in his arms, holding the knife that stabs me in the heart.

I look down at myself. My not-so-flat chest hidden under the depths of my baggy, white t-shirt. The wrong lower region in my light-washed, straight-leg jeans. This is not me. If I am not myself, then who is me? If it could be anyone on this earth, in this moment, I want it to be him. He has her in his arms and that is all I could ask for.