Chris M.

Beautiful People are rare. They exist all over the world, but they’re hard to come by. You’re lucky if there are one or two in your life, even only tangentially. Everyone has some sort of beauty, of course, and I don’t think any person is ugly, but I’m talking about the Beautiful People, with capital letters because it’s official: they’re perfect. That doesn’t mean they aren’t flawed, but their flaws are somehow perfectly beautiful too.

We don’t all agree, though, on who deserves the designation. Everyone sees everyone differently. A Beautiful Person doesn’t necessarily immediately shine when they walk into a room. You might not even notice them at first. It takes work—noticing, interpreting—to find them, which sounds inconvenient, but it only makes it better when you do. Then they become part of your life and maybe even a friend, so you get to bask in their glowing presence and just be like “ugghghh ily” forever.

Sev is one of my favorite Beautiful People. We met in a group hangout sesh and the next day he invited me over to watch Birdemic. We made a cute video of us making food to put on YouTube, but it got deleted. We went on the swings in the playground near his house and we grazed the trees with our toes as we talked, opening up to each other the way only near-strangers feel comfortable doing.

When we’re together, we talk about ourselves, other people, ideas, movies, our love lives, music, our fears, our dreams, our psychological states. Sometimes we just cuddle in his basement and watch The Problem Solvers.

Sometimes we fight. They’re always tiny, short fights. We talk them out and immediately absorb our love for each other.

Sev is sitting in a tree, leaning against a branch, talking about how he loves nature more than people, smoking a cigarette against the afternoon sky, shining through the late-summer leaves and looking up as the ash and pollen combine in a swirl around us.

Sev is at the lunch table in the first days of school. He is glowing and warm in his thick wool sweater and we laugh at politically incorrect jokes and bad puns with our friends. He draws a triangle or an inverted cross on my hand sometimes with pens we find on empty desks or hallway floors.

Sev is in my arms after I cut his shaggy brown hair on the couch our friends hoisted up into a tree in the meadow, 20 feet off the ground, suspended by rope.

Sev is in my Facebook chat box when I have news or at my door when my world is crumbling. He is there waiting for me every afternoon in front of school. Sometimes we cry. Mostly we don’t. Mostly we just hold each other and hope we will someday be as strong as our love for each other. ♦