Elizabeth had always been captivated by her girlfriend's beauty, but there was something magical about her natural curls. Those fleeting moments—when you stepped out of the shower, your golden blonde hair damp and wild—were Elizabeth's favorite. The curls framed your face like a glowing halo, soft and radiant, but they never stayed for long. You always straightened them, meticulously smoothing out every curl until your hair was sleek and controlled.

Elizabeth had asked about it a few times, softly curious, but you always brushed it off. "It’s just easier this way." you’d mumble, avoiding her gaze. But Elizabeth could see through the excuses; she saw the insecurity behind your words, the way you avoided her eyes when she caught you flattening your hair in the mirror.

One lazy Sunday morning, as you both lounged in the living room, Elizabeth decided to push a little harder. She was playing with your hair absentmindedly, twirling a loose strand around her finger. "You know," she began, her voice soft and casual. "your curls are my favorite. I wish I could see them more."