Mysterious him.

He told me that he loved the way I talk. There was something about the way he said things. You just had to believe him. They'd ask, the others, the ignorant, about how blatantly I trusted his words. But they'd perhaps never know, how much I love that he had nothing to analyse about me. He was subtle, the way the breeze is when its barely there. At times, he was flattering. They'd ask me about him, his name, about how he looked. I could only feign a smile. He's my mystery, my very own, and he's not to be shared with anyone, not in words, not anyway, anyhow. For him I was the most beautiful dancer in the world, when in reality, my feet lay numb since the last five years. For him, I was the sweetest voice in the world, never mind the fact that I barely talk. For him, I was a vivacious beauty, never mind the scar that covers half my face. For him, I was alive, though I was dead for the rest...


UPDATE : Well, many people have gone on to ask whether this story is fiction or not. Well, it is. It is basically about a defamed woman having many a weaknesses, but with a guy, for whom, she's perfect the way she is. Some lines may be inspired though. ;)