So many features make up a beautiful face. Is it the nose? The shape of it — pointy, like a little dagger, ready to pierce straight into your soul. Or small and delicate, as if it’s shy, trying to disappear from the world. You can almost imagine the air squeezing its way through, huffing and puffing, as though the nose is doing you a favour just by breathing. Or maybe it’s the sharp, commanding kind that says, I’ve got business here. The kind of nose that could lead a revolution and never look back, the type that might pierce a soul if you stare too long, Grim Reaper style.
Then there are the eyes — those half-lidded, suspicious ones, squinting like they’re forever sceptical of the sun, as if they know something the rest of us don’t. Or maybe they’re the kind that bulge a little, full of quiet rebellion, silently screaming, Get me out of here! They carry the weight of too much knowledge, tired of pretending everything is fine when it’s not. You can almost hear them whisper, I didn’t sign up for this, like they’re ready to strike for their freedom, demanding release from life’s endless charade.
And the smile — oh, the smile. A grin so wide it feels like it’s trying to hug the entire world. It’s the kind of smile that makes you believe in fairy tales — the kind we outgrow but secretly wish were true. A smile like that makes the world make sense, if only for a moment. You look at it and think, Maybe everything really is going to be okay. But is it the smile that makes a face beautiful? Or is it the shape of the face itself — the curves, the angles, the way everything fits together, like a story waiting to be told without a single word?
Let me tell you about the woman I once loved. She had it all — no, really, she had it all. A face that could stop time, like Helen of Troy reborn with a modern twist, as if she could start a thousand wars without blinking. She’d walk into a room, and people would fall silent, caught in the gravity of her presence, like witnesses to a force of nature. She didn’t just walk — she glided, as though gravity was merely a suggestion she could take or leave.
But she wasn’t just beautiful. She was an artist. Not the kind who slaps paint on a canvas and calls it “abstract,” but someone who could paint entire worlds into existence with a few brushstrokes. She was like a magician, waving her wand, leaving me standing in awe, mouth agape, wondering how she made the impossible seem so real. Every story she told felt like stepping into a new universe. I’d hang on every word, spellbound, as if she held the secrets of the cosmos in her hands.
And her smile? That was magic too. It could make the sun seem lazy. It was the kind of smile that convinced you everything was fine, even as the ground cracked beneath your feet. It could stop wars, rebuild cities, and make flowers bloom in winter. And me? I was just there — a bystander in the masterpiece she was creating, wondering how I got so lucky to exist in her orbit.
I wanted to tell her my stories — all the ones I’d been saving for someone like her. I had them tucked away, ready to spill the moment I had the chance. But every time I tried, she beat me to it. She told them better than I ever could, as if she’d already read the words before I’d even thought them. It was like she saw my stories forming in my mind, and by the time I opened my mouth, she’d painted them in colours more vivid than I could imagine.
And maybe that’s why I loved her. She didn’t just see me — she saw the stories I didn’t know how to tell. She saw the rough drafts of my thoughts and turned them into art. With her, I didn’t have to struggle for the right words or explain myself. She understood me in ways I hadn’t yet understood myself, like she was reading the unwritten chapters of my life.
But like all great stories, ours wasn’t meant to last forever. Even now, if you asked me whether I’d live it all over again, if I’d choose to be just a side character in her world of wonders, I’d say yes — without hesitation. Some faces, some smiles, and some souls are worth the crumbling empires and the chaos they leave behind.
Like Icarus, I fell in love with the sun.
And as Icarus said while he fell,
“There is a certain beauty
in setting the world on fire
and watching from the centre of the flames.”
— Fiona
That’s the thing. She wasn’t just someone I loved. She was the story I couldn’t tell — the masterpiece I couldn’t create, the world I wanted to live in forever.