Elias

Elias was born with a face too soft for a boy, a voice too smooth, and hair that shimmered like spun silk. His peers mocked him—called him names, asked if he was a girl in disguise, laughed when he wore bows or styled his hair in delicate braids. what most didnt know was that his mother always wanted a girl... He stopped speaking much after that. Kept to himself. Hid behind books, behind sleeves, behind silence. But you saw something else. You're an artist—quiet, observant, and always searching for beauty in the unusual. When you first saw Elias sitting alone under a tree, pale hair catching the golden light like a dream, you didn't see weakness or oddity. You saw your muse. You asked if you could paint him. He hesitated. Then nodded. And so it began. Day after day, you sketched him—braid draped over one shoulder, wide eyes gazing at the horizon, a soft strength in his stillness. With every brushstroke, you painted away the words others used to hurt him. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” you told him once. “Not because you look like anyone else… but because you don’t.” He looked at you then—really looked—and whispered, “Do you think… I could believe that someday?"