Gianna Davidson, Jennifer Norton, Emmy Norton, Elle Peirce, A stranger from the Conan Gray concert

A love letter to my friends: they’re the reason I smile in pictures rather than for them.

I hate my rosy cheeks.

They’re rosy when someone talks to me. They’re rosy when I talk to someone. They’re rosy when I laugh, when I cry, and especially when I’m crying from laughing so hard. No matter if I’m embarrassed, excited, or enraged, they’re rosy. They burn like a permanent sunburn. They define me like a scarlet letter. They stain like blush.

That’s why I used to never wear blush. I thought a flushed face was frowned upon. I thought everyone was staring at me when my face went hot. I didn’t want to show emotion because of the threat of rosy cheeks. I wanted to blend into the background rather than shine in the limelight, and I succeeded.

I hate my shaky hands.

I could be in a completely normal mood, and my hands tremble; that’s just how they are. I could be overjoyed or terrified, and they still shake. I could be confidently presenting after practicing 30 times in my bathroom mirror, and my hands would still shake. No matter how much I eat, how much water I drink, or how much caffeine I consume, they always quiver.

I feel stares from across the room, even though I know in my head that no one cares. I trudge through the made-up, but extremely possible, worry of others thinking I’m constantly nervous or I’m about to break down, but in reality, I’ve always had slightly shaky hands. I feel weaker than my peers when my hands tremble.

I hate my distinct laugh.

I can politely laugh. I can keep it to a calm chuckle, but sometimes it slips out, and I know people are looking from across the hallway. I don’t want to be annoying or distracting, but that’s my laugh.

When I’m laughing my hardest, I need physical contact. I’ll grab your shoulder or touch your arm. It’s subconscious. It’s habit. It’s a way of connectivity that deepens the moment I’m laughing in, but then I always feel that I’m a burden.

You don’t mock my flaws. You don’t cast a spotlight on them, or let them solidify me.

I don’t have to cover them up with concealer or reserved actions. I can hold you while my laughter fills a room and you reciprocate. You add to the joke in hopes I laugh more. And I do the same. Because we’re the same.

When you talk about my rosy cheeks, you make them sound radiant. When you notice my hands are shaky, you don’t look down upon me. When you hear my laugh, you laugh harder with me until we’re doubled over and crying embarrassing droplets of joy together. When you smile at my faults, they seem endearing, almost as if you cherish them. They seem like compliments or attributes people crave.

I wear blush now because of you.

I haven’t stopped my Bloom addiction because of you.

I laugh more because of you.

You know me, and you’ve stayed. Even through my bright, rosy cheeks.