A More Beautiful Question Novels & Stories

Normally I would call it beautiful because that's what it is. I take a good look at what it is complimenting. Beautiful? How does this look beautiful to it? "I would be questioning how good your eyesight works, but then..." I trail off. 'You can say what you want but in time you'll see what I'm talking about.' I keep taking a look at what it's trying to convince me about the aesthetics. There was nothing special about it. Nothing too great that could make me wowed. I wonder what it's making it convinced that it was indeed beautiful.

He looked confused for a second and then his face slowly broke into a grin. "Why do you keep asking me all these questions?" he said. "Please do not tell me you are jealous of my friend's beauty. I mean, have you even looked at yourself in a mirror recently? Like really looked? Because you are not just beautiful. You are not even just very beautiful. You are the kind of beautiful that makes people walk into walls because they are too busy staring at you. You are gorgeous. Stunning. Breathtaking, in fact all of those words and more." Miraeve's mouth opened, then it closed and then she opened her mouth again. No sound came out either time. Her face turned a shade of pink that Marl had never se

Chapter 10. Breaking all Promises. "Baby". Cyrus called Louis who was laying down in his arms. He seemed unusual silent. "Hmmm"? He said playing with Cyrus's fingers. "Are you happy with me"? Cyrus asked and this time Louis looked at him. He was surely surprised. Cyrus never asked him. "What’s with the question "? "Tell me please. Are you happy with me? Am i fulfilling your needs and demands? Or am i lacking"? Cyrus was quite serious to say.

When she’s through, she holds both of my shoulders. “Look at yourself and tell me how you look without ever being told that you were ugly,” Lovely tells me. Staring at myself, I erase all the hateful comments said to me by Addison and her mother, and slowly, I start to stop seeing myself as they saw me. I started touching my face, seeing how beautiful I am and have always been. “I don’t look like a wet rat,” I tell Lovely. “And you never were,” she responded. “Thank you for letting me know how beautiful I was.” I turned around to hug her.

And as she walked out, the sun on her face, the city humming around her, she whispered — so softly, only the wind could hear: "I’m not your mirror anymore. The café faded behind her. But the truth didn’t. She had been judged. Measured. Found lacking. And still? She walked away — not broken. Not ashamed. But clear. Because she finally understood: Beauty wasn’t in the face. It was in the choice. To stay. To rise. To see — and still be kind.

I'm full with the joy of spending this weekend with this beautiful and wonderful people over here. What matters is that we all are together at last.we are " CRAZY BEAUTIFUL US"

Perhaps he might pity me and that would pave the way for me to draw closer to George and steal his phone. "I heard you the first time," George muttered alongside a heavy sigh. "Then why are you not saying anything about it. Do you not have questions?" I fired at him. George nodded his head slowly. "Of course I do. I desperately want to know why such a beautiful woman who could have different men in the palm of her hands chose to sign a contract of marriage with a man. Perhaps is your husband a billionaire? Did you do it for the money?" George fired back at me.

I didn't answer the question immediately. That triggered me I wouldn't lie, but I couldn't let it get to me. “You seriously asking me that question?” I asked glaring at her “I mean,you know ..yeah… yeah…” She stuttered nervously. Damn these nosy reporters. “Well,” I said, waving a dismissive hand, “they've got nothing on me.” “But they are both very beautiful women,” she insisted. “They are both beautiful women ofcourse,” I conceded with a nod. “Then there's… this beauty?” I said it as a question, tilting my head, my hand sweeping down to indicate my curves, my bump. “What are you saying?”

he said tenderly, his tone full of love, “if I were to define beauty I'll just point to you.” He made me laugh and feel seen in a way no one else could. “Your sweet talk has really improved, huh?” I teased softly. “I’m only speaking facts,” he said. I leaned closer into him. “What if I get into an accident and my face is all messed up? Will you still think I'm beautiful then?” I asked him. I knew this sort of question annoyed him, and even though I had promised to stop, I still needed assurance. “No,” he surprised me with his answer, drawing a frown from my face.

I was a premium lamb decorated for the slaughterhouse, an exchange currency designed to settle a multi-million-dollar mafia blood feud. "Karl!" I screamed, slamming my palms wildly against the solid oak stall door. The sound of my own voice shattered against the expensive tile and brass fixtures, returning to me hollow and pathetic. There was no response. The heavy bass from the ballroom downstairs didn't even vibrate through the floorboards anymore; the power cut had silenced the music, leaving only a dead, heavy quiet that made the hairs on my arms stand straight up.