She was just a woman. She was just a woman with brown hair and hazel eyes. She was tall and slim, or you could say graceful. If you looked carefully, you could see the uneven curls in her hair. She hadn't bothered to do her hair this morning. But her eyes were beautiful in every way. There were brown dots, small specks lost in the hazel color. They were big and sparkled in a different way. They were not blue, not green, they were a simple hazel, but they stood out more than blue or green. Her eyelashes were long and black as if lost in the darkness. She had large freckles on her cheeks. They were even more noticeable on her red cheeks. Her legs were long and thin, but covered with scars. Big, scabbed over, sometimes bruised. Like I said, she was just a woman. A beautiful but scared woman.

   She was a woman. She was a woman with hair that smelled of grass. She ran in the meadow this morning. If you looked carefully, you could see the daisy caught in her hair. She hadn't tied her hair up. She let it blow in the wind. And her eyes... They were shining. Like the eyes of a girl learning to read for the first time, like the sun shining on her face when she climbed to the top of the pine tree. They were blue, blue like watching a river flowing relentlessly. Or they were green, green like the plum on the top branch of the tree she had climbed this morning to pick some fruits. But mostly hazel, I think. As if a little sunlight had been added to the mud she jumped in when it was raining. There were little specks in her eyes. Spots like the stains on her skirt... And her eyelashes... It was like the space she always dreamed of going to, endless and dark. She had big freckles on her cheeks. She loved her freckles. She always thought it looked especially pretty on her red cheeks. When she ran, her cheeks would get even redder. That was one of the reasons she loved running. Lastly, her legs. They were long and thin, but they were covered in scars. Big, scabbed, bruised... She believed her scars told stories. Stories of cycling. Climbing trees. Playing soccer. Jumping in the mud. Running in the meadow. And most importantly, stories of getting up. She was falling. She fell a lot. But she got up every time. Yes, no matter what anyone thought, she loved her scars. Those little bruises that reminded her to get up every time. The scars that others found ugly. But she didn't care. She was the only one who could hear the stories they told and that was enough for her. Because she was a woman. A beautiful and independent woman.