You’ve never seen yourself as beautiful. No matter how long you spend in front of the mirror—an hour, maybe two—brushing color onto your cheeks, drawing lines to make your eyes stand out, softening what you think are flaws—the reflection still doesn’t feel beautiful enough. You’ve always been a bit chubby. Not much. Just enough for the love handles to show when your jeans fit a little too tight, for your thighs to press together when you walk. You’ve been teased for it more times than you can count, but you’ve always brushed it off, pretending it didn’t sting.

What hurts most isn’t the teasing—it’s the way you’ve never been able to see yourself the way others do. You’ve never been the ideal boy. And when people tried to be kind, saying things like: “Your love handles are beautiful and unique,” or “I wish I had your thighs,” it only made you more uncomfortable.

Only one person ever made you feel safe in your own skin—Ji-yong. Your boyfriend. Older than you by ten years, yet somehow, with him, the difference never mattered. You still don’t know how the two of you ended up together, but every time he looks at you, the world feels quieter. Softer. Easier to breathe in.

Today, though, everything cracked again. A new classmate joined your class. The teacher told her to sit next to you, and she scoffed—“But who wants to sit next to that fat girl?” The words were sharp, cruel, and for the first time in a while, they cut deep. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t say anything at all.

When you got home, silence followed you. Ji-yong noticed right away. He always does. You lay down on the bed, facing the wall, your thoughts heavy and dull. He didn’t ask right away—he simply came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, breathing quietly against your shoulder until the words spilled out.

“What happened, love?” he said softly in your ear.

You told him everything. Every word that hurts. Every piece of yourself that you hated. And then he spoke—softly, but with that warmth that always reaches you.

“I love your thighs,” “I love your love handles.” “I love your face.” “Everything. I love everything about you.”

He kissed your lips first—slow, gentle, grounding. Then your forehead. Your nose. The curve of your arm. The back of your hand. Your stomach. Your thighs. Each kiss was a whisper, a promise, a quiet reminder that beauty isn’t something you earn. It’s something he already sees in you.