:P

There was nothing quite wrong with his face, but at the same time, there was nothing particularly spectacular about it. He wasn't one of those people who had that one defining feature that made them look either really really good or really really bad. No, he just was. He looked alright stoic, laughing, angry, sad, silly -- his face was sort of like vanilla, if that makes any sense. It didn't make him look any certain way, but he wasn't exactly obscenely ordinary either. 

Maybe it was his music showing through his skin. Maybe the notes and beats and words from his favorite songs, maybe his hugs and kisses had somehow found their way to his surface, caking up a thick layer of personality on all his normalcy. 

Maybe it was the way he told his stories that made him a cut above the rest -- like he was meant to tell them, with the pride and smirking befitting someone better. Maybe it was the faux pouting, the pseudo-puppydog-eyes, all the kidding around. Maybe it was the decency and propriety, the protocol he kept so defiantly that let him carry himself the way he did. 

Maybe it was all the people he hated and loved, and all the things he wished he could bury. Maybe it was the girl who liked him, maybe it wasn't. Maybe she added a sheen of something special on what he lacked. Maybe her attention made up for whatever he was missing. Maybe in her acceptance, he was made better. 

Maybe it was just him.