A More Beautiful Question Novels & Stories

Then, he asked her, “May I ask how old are you?” “I just turned sixteen the other week,” Clarissa responded. “Belated happy birthday then! You are simply perfect. You are the one I have been looking for – a precious gem and a gorgeous model. And someday, you will be our future beauty queen,” Bamby expressed himself happily. “But, why me?” Clarissa sought an explanation. “Why? Well, sweetheart, has somebody told you that you looked like that former Spanish Miss Universe, Ampara Muñoz?” Bamby said.

He won't do it for that dead f*cker but for his devastated sister, he would avenge that man. But why didn't he like the idea of killing that girl? Sooner or later, she had to die. It was inevitable but why didn't he want to put any more scars on her. There was no denying it, the girl was f*cking attractive, but she was a whore with a face of purity. Maybe she was just so beautiful that it felt wrong to taint her beauty. But he would care less. If he had to scar her face just to get answers out of her then alas he won't hesitate to do that.

Currently, in this house, there are still two beings present - one human and one non-human. "Do you have any questions?" Enda was the first to speak. "Um..." Ciara hesitated, then asked her question: "Can I go to bed now?" Another silence fell... Enda stood still for a few seconds, slightly surprised by this question. He thought Ciara would ask questions like "What just happened?" or "Who are you and what was the thing you just killed?". He didn't expect her to only care about whether she could go to bed now or not.

Really look at her. She's beautiful. She has always been beautiful. That was never the question. But I'm standing here now looking at her the way you look at something you've been told is precious for so long you forgot to check whether you actually believe it — and I'm finding that the answer is more complicated than it used to be. I can't remember what made me propose.

I joke, and I give him a small smile. I don't want that "hear or feel" temptation again. A smile beams on his face, giving it a bright and admirable look. Well, he is always admirable, even without a smile, but as they say, a smile adds more beauty. Here is a perfect example of that saying. His smile makes you feel like you are on the moon. "Trust me. One last question." He asks.

A woman has been given an attachment to makeup and a desire to look even more beautiful. “Not praising you is like not liking God’s creation.” Irene sighed. “Beauty lovers can’t stop praising beauty, Hazel. This is not a concern or issue.” But Hazel had nothing to do with this matter. She was anxious only because of Daud, not her beauty. Her beauty was just the reason, not the cause or harm. “Like a different flower in the garden with the most pleasant smell.” Irene sighed dreamingly, leaning back and resting her back against the bench’s headboard.

It echoed in my head like a song stuck on repeat. No one had called me that in years. Not without a snort or an eye roll. And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I needed to know. “Are you saying I’m beautiful?” God. The stupidest question I had ever asked anyone. Ever. He chuckled. “What a weird question. Isn’t it obvious?” I blinked. No, it wasn’t obvious. In fact, I was 99% sure he was either blind or messing with me. How could probably the hottest man on the planet think I am beautiful?”

I have fulfilled 95% of them. "How daring are you?" He asks with his sparkling eyes. They are common honey in color, but have a peculiar appeal, perhaps their mischievous shine. "What kind of question is that for a complete stranger?" "Do you know that one question is not answered with another?" Or didn't they teach you? "You are doing the same." "I smile." Returns to methe smile. He has a warm look. "It only happens when he smiles, though," is the first thing I think of.

Wouldn’t become something unstable overnight. But it also meant. It would take time. Real time. To become something complete. The space pulsed again. Then. “Question.” I looked ahead. “Go on.” A pause. Then. “What defines correct?” My breath caught. Because that. That wasn’t a structural question. That was something else. Something deeper. Something closer to judgment. I didn’t answer immediately. Because there wasn’t a simple answer. Not here. Not anymore. “Correct isn’t fixed,” I said slowly.

Julian smiled faintly as she muttered something under her breath about “the neckline needing to breathe,” then promptly reached for a different swatch of lace. “I can see your brain ticking,” she called over her shoulder without looking. “What’s on your mind?” Julian tilted his head. “You.” Elara glanced back, a small laugh in her throat. “That’s not helpful.” “It’s the truth,” he said, his voice low. “I’m watching you build beauty with your bare hands. It’s hard not to be in awe.”