He told her she was beautiful.

She knew right then and there that he must have been looking past all of it: past her messy hair, past her internal scars, past her imperfections. She would not have believed him had it not been for his certitude.

It was the way he said it that made her believe him. He said it with such conviction, such sureness in his eyes. It was as if he was stating a fact rather than an opinion: that she was beautiful—that she was, even, a wonder to look upon, like a painting at a museum that he had been waiting a lifetime to see, or the sight of a relaxed café overlooking a sunset, or his lost love that he was meeting again for the first time in five years.

Because of his conviction and from the way he gazed at her, every ounce of her believed his words, for she had never, ever had someone look at her in such a way.