dear mom,

i met a boy at the art gallery the other day. he came by me while i was admiring a particular painting and -- would you believe the nerve of him -- he laughed at my choice in art. he asked me if i actually liked the artwork i was examining, and when i said yes, he laughed even harder for a whole entire minute. i became incredibly offended, of course, and told him off. i know you've always told me to be kind to people, even those that hurt me, but something about this boy set me completely on edge.

mom, he's got this horrible laugh. his voice is this bitter, rancorous tune that sends goosebumps down your skin and makes you want to run. and when he laughs, it feels as if the world is suddenly painted in the most horrendous shades of ugliness, and everything just feels darker.

but mom, there's something else, something about him that i can't shake off. see, when he laughs, his mouth opens wide and crinkles up all the way to his eyes; and oh god, mom, if only you saw his eyes. they're this absolutely alluring shade of deep viridian mixed with soft copper; i've never seen eyes so captivating before, and mom, as much as i wanted to strangle him in the moment he ridiculed my taste for art, i couldn't help but think he was art, too.

he asked me out to dinner, mom, and i said yes. i'm seeing him tonight, and for some reason, i feel so absolutely excited for it. my heart is already racing and my stomach feels so queasy, and my cheeks are burning up so much that no amount of make-up can conceal the red that colors my skin. i've never felt this way before, i've never felt so alive, and i hardly even know him yet, mom.

mom, i think he may be the boy you warned me about. i think he's absolutely enticing, and i want to spend more time with him. i want to know him and strip down all his layers and analyze the pigments that make up the beauty that he is.

mom, i think he's going to hurt me. but for some reason, i don't care. what do i do?

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dear dad,

i met a girl at the art gallery the other day. she's stunningly beautiful, and dad, i think she may be the one.

i saw her from across the room, standing in front of a painting that no one else had given a second glance to. as she stared at the painting with her head tilted a bit to the side, her eyes were squinting just a little and her nose was scrunched up. she kept biting on her lip, and something about her expression intrigued me. i wondered to myself what was so fascinating about the painting, so i walked over to her to see it for myself.

dad, the painting was fucking hideous. why it was even in the gallery will forever be a mystery to me, but it was so damn terrible. the painting strokes and colors and textures were all just so wrong, and yet she was looking at it as if it were a masterpiece.

i told her that i found it ridiculous that she actually liked the artwork. dad, i even laughed at her for admiring it. i criticized it and i criticized her, and i thought that maybe she'd just walk away from me, feeling incredibly offended or embarrassed, but instead, she started to yell at me.

it was both beautiful and pretentious, the things that came out of her mouth. do you want to know what she said, dad? she said that a work does not need to be aesthetic in order for it to be flawless. she told me that beauty is not purely physical notions; beauty lies behind the deeper parts of something. beauty lies in emotion, she said to me, beauty lies in the story that is told. and she told me that i was shallow for not trying to read the meaning behind the blurred lines of the painting, and she told me that i was arrogant for judging her so quickly without trying to understand her own emotions. she ranted on and on, and dad, i swear i could've listened to her speak forever.

i listened to her silently and when she was done lecturing me, instead of apologizing, i simply asked her out to dinner. she was taken aback at first, but to my surprise, she agreed.

dad, she's beautiful. her words are beautiful and her heart is beautiful and dad ... you know how i am. i don't want to hurt her. what do i do?