She wore an oversized gray sweatshirt with a faded logo on the back and loose-fitting, worn-out jeans with several holes in them. Her hair was the color of the soft feather of a raven, and her eyes were a shimmering yellow, like small yellow crystal orbs. Her walk was confident, but never flaunting; nonchalant at times, but always alert; calculated, but relaxed; graceful yet cautious. She was thin, but healthily so; curves in all of the right places. She seems lithe and lean; stronger than she lets on. Her hands look soft, yet her palms are calloused. She is quiet, and keeps to herself for most of the time, though, butts in when she thinks is necessary. She makes sarcastic remarks and sometimes rude gestures, but smiles warmly afterwards to show she’s joking. Her smile…it lights up her face and the people around her, like a fire in a dark room. It seems that, if she’s happy, then everyone is. Especially me.
I could go on and on, but I’m sure you get the idea. At the moment, we are both sitting in English. She sits in the desk on my left. Her notebook is splayed open and she has her head and shoulders back, relaxed, and sketches with concentration, yet still paying attention to Mrs. Summers rant about the summer homework. I glance obliquely over at her paper and saw an intricately detailed person. The person, a girl with long black hair, was falling backwards, into what looked like a deep dark abyss. Her face was a mixture of fear and desperation, and her hand clawed upwards, reaching for anything but empty space.
The picture is beautiful, beautiful like the ways she is. The pen lines are intricate, all in the right places, like the paths she makes; like her hair falling around her shoulders. All the right lines in all the right places.