she sees him across a crowded room and thinks he looks perfect. which is in of itself a probllem because the perfect ones are trouble. They have skeletons and bodies in their closets and their smiles aren’t really smiles. blood wouldn’t look amiss spilling from their lips as they whisper sweet nothings into your ear and tell you their deepest darkest secrets and then laugh the words off like they were jokes but you know, you feel it in the timbre of their voice, feel it in the goosebumps that erupt along your skin, that they’re not jokes at all.