She was beautiful.
Not the loud kind of beautiful,
not the kind that demands attention,
but the kind that catches you off guard,
soft, steady,
like the warmth of the sun on your skin when you didn’t realize you were cold.
I admired everything about her.
The way she walked,
like she wasn’t just passing through the world,
the world was lucky she chose to walk on it.
The way she spoke,
words rolling off her tongue like they’d been waiting for her to find them,
gentle but firm,
like truth dressed in silk.
Her skin-flawless.
Not flawless like makeup ads promise,
but flawless like rivers cutting through stone,
like history written softly across her face.
Her body?
Not perfect by anyone’s rules but her own,
a shape that felt like poetry,
not the kind you study,
the kind you feel.
Her style was effortless.
Not curated,
just honest.
Clothes didn’t wear her;
she wore them,
with a grace that made simplicity look like art.
But her shoes were always dirty.
It didn’t matter if they were brand new,
straight from the box,
or worn down from years of walking,
somehow,
they were always stained with something.
Dust, mud,
Just something
And I hated that.
Not because it mattered, really,
but because I thought it should.
Maybe it was the part of me that needed order,
needed neatness,
the part that saw beauty in straight lines
and clean edges.
Her shoes didn’t fit that picture.
They kicked at the corners of my mind,
scuffed up the idea of what “perfect” should look like.
So I let her go.
Not because she wasn’t enough,
but because her shoes weren’t clean.
It sounds ridiculous now,
but at the time,
it felt like reason.
Five years passed.
Life happened,
the kind of life that leaves its own dirt behind.
Mistakes, lessons,
love gained, love lost,
all of it piling up like dust in places you forget to clean.
Then I saw her again.
Last week.
Standing there,
the same light in her eyes,
like the years hadn’t dimmed a thing.
She smiled,
the kind of smile that could stretch across oceans,
the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been missed,
even if you haven’t.
She still looked good.
Better, actually.
Like life had layered her with more stories,
more depth,
and none of it weighed her down.
Her teeth were bright,
her scent was warm,
her presence still undeniable.
And her shoes?
Still dirty.
But this time,
I didn’t care.
Because now I know,
life isn’t about spotless shoes.
It’s not about keeping clean what’s meant to get messy.
It’s about walking,
about moving,
about showing up,
even if the road leaves its mark on you.
Her shoes weren’t a flaw.
They were proof.
Proof that she’d lived,
that she’d walked through things and kept going,
that beauty isn’t about what stays clean,
it’s about what survives the dirt.
She still wears dirty shoes.
And now,
I think that’s the most beautiful thing about her.
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