I don't look like her. My hair is frizzy and inconsistent. Her presence leaves its mark and I don't know if I've ever been that beautiful a moment of my life. I don't look like her and I wonder how she sees me. Does she know that I think being pretty is both a blessing and a curse? I don't think pretty girls realize the world is at their fingertips. We outsiders have to find something else to cling to; I'm still trying to figure out what that is for me. I'm funny, but at my own expense. I don't know how to take myself seriously. I often feel like a fraud auditioning for parts everyone knows I'd be no good at. I am composed, but I am crumbling. I joke to distract from that. Laughing is easy, pretty is different—a different I don't know how to access. That guy just smiled at me. I smile back and silently pray that I'll never see him again. Being his acquaintance is safe, that means feelings won't get involved. My feelings h