she shaved her eyebrows too. but she did it better than me.
i was so happy to find that i was not the alway skewed individual in our class. amazed that the morning after commiting this act of disdain for uniformity, even as i shuffled into the lecture hall with a blank face (partially proud, partially regretful, i won't reveal the ratio), she had been out there sporting her bare brow like it was shiny new leather.
because of her, i picked my head up.
and it felt sacred. it felt holy, to be part of something so small, but just big enough for the two of us, and the two of us alone.
she comes down to my seat at the very front from her own throne at the very top (and the very back) to tell me each day before she leaves how pretty she thinks i look without those wolverine eyebrows i used to shape with insecurity every week.
i might not know what love is, but if it isn't the magnetic pressure i feel whenever i'm in the room with her, if it isn't the way my skin burns with lack, and my head pounds with deficiency... then is love even real?