PERFECTION COMES IN PAIRS. Take the sky, for example. The stars shimmer and gleam as if a preschooler purposely pours an excessive amount of craft glitter on construction paper. The dusk is soft and inviting, like the gentle stroke of an artist gliding pink watercolor on her canvas. There's also the perfection in light and darkness, in which one cannot even exist without the other.
He is many things. He's both perfect yet so incredibly not. He shines like glitter in the darkness, and he is also the first ray of sunlight in the cool morning.
But he sees perfection in someone else. He sees perfection in her delicate fingers that run through his hair on tired days. He sees perfection in the curve of her eyelashes when she slightly closes her eyes and tilts her head so that they rest on the top of her cheeks. He sees perfection in the open-mouthed pout she has when she's concentrating.
Indeed, perfection comes in pairs because when one cannot find perfection in themselves, it's easier to find yourself within someone you find perfect.
—
THE FIRST TIME he held hands with her was at the beach. He remembers her rolling up her jeans despite the freezing weather and waddling into the water. She turned back at him and gave a smile as the wind blew the sea salt and her hair. "Come on!"
He rolled up his own pants and walked in next to her. They both stood there for a while before he smiled to himself and lifted up the water with his toe. The splash made her yell in shock, but she also laughed and used her own fingers to splash him back. Both her laughs and the icy shock made him feel awake in ways he hadn't felt before. He laughed and she laughed. Together, they were surrounded by laughter and the sprinkle of saltwater.
For a brief moment, he had pushed her instead of the water. He quickly grabbed her hands before she fell and righted her up, and suddenly, they were face to face.
Her hands were extremely warm despite their surroundings. Her hair was tangled and matted and smelled like the ocean, but it flew around her like it was the breeze itself. Her lips were parted just slightly as if she had just stopped giggling.
He stood there just staring at her for a while and holding her hands. It was like seeing the sunset for the first time after being locked up in a room with no windows.
"You're so annoying," she said and then, they both laughed again because he knew he wasn't actually annoying. And as they laughed and held hands, he felt his chest go warm, and the water wasn't even that frigid, and the wind became a blanket holding him close.
—
THE FIRST TIME he missed her was when he was locked up in his room, slaving away at his desk. He didn't feel particularly comfortable; he was in his basketball shorts and an old t-shirt with a barbeque stain on it. He hadn't brushed his hair, and his glasses were almost slipping off his nose. He had called her, but she was sick and didn't want to leave her dorm.
The last thing he wanted to do was write an essay for school, but after days of procrastinating, the essay was a must-do. But he really did not feel like it, and all he did feel like was seeing her, but he couldn't, so he didn't want to do anything.
The only source of light in the room was his desk lamp and the screen of his laptop. He sighed and closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair.
At this moment, he realized that appreciating someone was something that he didn't do often. He didn't like that he missed her only when she wasn't here, and it made him feel like he took her familiar presence for granted.
