I thought she was made of china, the first time I met her. Girls that perfect didn't exist, only dolls. Frozen icons of perfection, unattainable.
She made me feel clumsy - she was slight, small, pale, hiding behind perfect ringlets. On paper we sound the same - the same could be said of me (apart from the ringlets; my hair is straight, limp) but she wore it with pride, I treated my height as a disability, my weight as an inconvienience, my skintone a health hazard. I looked sickly, she looked ethereal.
Somehow it wasn't a surprise when she spoke in that soft, low voice. I knew, suddenly, why she was so delicate, why she was so perfect.
She was a fabrication, a creation. Generated perfection.
Those eyes were so sad, wide and fearful - what would happen if they found out?
I swore I'd never tell, clasping her hand in mine, bringing it to my lips on an impulse that changed everything.
I think I ruined her from that moment. I think I broke her. It was as if she shattered into a thousand pieces, her delicacy destroyed.
I was the worst thing to happen to her, even if she gasped otherwise when she was under my touch.
I knew the truth.
She was the most delicate girl in town.