She is beautiful. But, in a manner that is so uncommon.
She finds beauty in places where people often do not.
She loves the dry leaves of Autumn, so lifeless yet so beautiful. That reminds her of how death can be beautiful too, about how the most lively things do get old and die when the season comes.
She finds beauty in the rain which people often get irritated with. It's so peaceful for her to just watch the rain while the earthy smell makes her nostalgic about home.
She loves the scent of books and the dry old flowers that she keeps in between the pages. It makes her feel at home, as if all the books she owns have a part of her in them.
She loves the wild more than the hustle of the citylights. The quiet sounds of insects inside the forest sound better to her than any of the songs ever will.
She could keep hearing the old medleys on and on and never care about being tagged as uncool by the ones who love the modern songs.
While people can't wait to go out, she can't wait to return home to her own self and do nothing. She would spend days locked inside her room, watch movies that are older than her and crying with each emotional scene.
She loved the sunset more than the sunrise and loved the night more than the day. She looked for fairylights and little things that seemed magical to her. She believed in fiction and trusted the fairy tales more than reality. She could be talking to you and still drift away in her own land of imagination. While people just listen to things and often forget, she imagines things in her head and remembers each word you ever told her. Brittle she is, but weak she isn't.
There's a kind of child in her which has nothing to do with her maturity. She may be mature beyond her age and still have the softest of heart and the warmth of a child.
I tell you what, she will give you the feeling of a warm winter afternoon and yet her smile held the aura of a sunny spring morning. She was beautiful. Indeed she was, unlike any of you. ❤️