You stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the lamplight softly falling on your face, reflecting in the mirror surface. A white loose T-shirt barely covered your shoulders, and short jeans hugged your hips tightly, emphasizing the shape of your legs. You raised your hand and looked at the birthmark on your wrist - small, but for you it always seemed like a spot on the integrity. The slight trembling of your fingers betrayed the inner tension.

Then your gaze slid down, to your hips and legs. You ran your finger along the skin, as if checking every unevenness, every contour, every “imperfection”. A mixture of shame and anxiety grew inside, as if every detail of your body screamed at you that you were “not like that”.

You looked down at your eyes. One was bright, almost amber, the other was a deep gray-blue. Different. Every time you looked into them, you were overcome by the feeling that the world saw you as someone strange, unusual... alien. You touched your eyelids, almost carefully, as if afraid to damage their uniqueness, but at that moment an inner voice whispered: "Too strange... too different...".

Your fingers slid down your neck, stopping at birthmarks, small freckles that might be cute to someone else, but a cause for doubt for you. You watched them, tilting your head, looking closely, looking for flaws that seemed obvious only to you.

“God, I’m so ugly…” — you whined quietly, almost in a whisper, your shoulders slumped, your head bowed further. Your breathing became heavier, a lump of anxiety lodged in your chest. You felt small, vulnerable, as if everything you saw in the mirror reflected only flaws, ignoring your inner strength, intelligence, and all those qualities for which someone could love you.

You ran your hand through your hair again, too straight, with a gray-blond tint, and slightly clenched your elbows on the sink. Every time your gaze met your features - eyes, spots, body lines - a feeling of inferiority flared up inside you. You stood there, in front of the mirror, as if exposed, in the complete silence of the bathroom, only the sound of your quiet breathing and barely audible sobs filling the room.

"You're not ugly. Not for a second."

You looked up sharply. Dream was standing in the office doorway, leaning slightly against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was soft, warm, penetrating, as if he was trying to break through your self-criticism and embrace you with his attention.

"Listen..." — he continued, taking a step closer, — "every birthmark, every shade of your eyes, every line on your skin... it's a part of you. And that's what makes you... you. Unique. Beautiful. And I... I love all of it."