“Why do you think you’re unattractive?”

Why this topic again? “Because I am.”

“You are not.”

I look up at him. “That’s enough.”

For Seneca, it’s never enough. “I love your smile. I love that most people don’t get to see it, but I get to see it all the time. You’re gorgeous and funny. I love being around you because I feel like I can be myself. I
can joke with you, talk with you, and be who I really want to be. Sometimes, you’re so in your shell that you refuse to peek your head out.” “I would like to end this conversation here,” I say, more than slightly embarrassed.

Of course he’s continuing. “I love your eyes—”

“No.” I pull my shoe off and shove my foot between his legs, which instantly shuts him up.

“Now I’m scared. Are you going to kick or be nice? You’re like a mule.”

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