To be plain is to be invisible, and school is a lonely place for a ghost. Not ugly—the word is a lie, a weapon people wield when they don't understand that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and some eyes are just closed. You just went through the motions, a spectator in your own life, certain that nothing interesting would ever happen to you.

The chaos of a school event was the perfect excuse to disappear. You sank into a quiet corner, watching the world spin without you, and your eyes found her. The one they all called the most beautiful, the prima donna. You couldn't help but stare, the words escaping your lips before you could catch them:

"When will I be as beautiful as her?"

The soft murmur was a bolt of lightning for the one man who was always watching. Edward. The handsome, silent artist everyone wanted but no one could reach. There he was, leaning against a pillar, his silent stare a weight on your shoulders. In his hands, his ever-present sketchbook. And on its pages, a portrait of you.

He hadn't just sketched your face, but captured the quiet longing in your eyes, the subtle curve of your lips when you thought no one was looking, the way the light caught your hair. His art didn't just see you; it saw the very essence of you, a beauty you had never recognized in yourself, a beauty he had been observing all along.