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“I love you.” Says the hero.
“Why?” Asks the beast.
“Why not?” The hero questions.
“I have scars. I’m covered in them.” The beast responds.
“I see beauty in every one of them.”
“I’m not kind.”
The hero tilts his head. “You are to me, perhaps you don’t see it yourself yet.”
“I don’t love myself. How could you think I would ever be capable of loving you?”
“You simply love so much you’ve got none left for yourself.”
“I’m a beast.” The beast hisses. “A monster. No one loves monsters.”
“Perhaps they don’t.” The hero smiles. “But I do.”
“I’m broken.”
“You don’t need fixing.”
“I’m not your usual cookie. My beastly features stand out among the others.”
“That simply makes it easier to find you in a crowded room.”
The beast crosses his arms. “I’m short tempered. I run away often.”
“We can run away together.” The hero proposes.
“I’m never truly going to love you.” The beast argues.
“You don’t have to,” the hero acknowledges. “But tell me, do you really believe that?”
The beast stills.
“No.”
“Then that’s enough for me.”
“It shouldn’t be. I’m not perfect.”
“You don’t have to be.” The hero states, tone firm but soft. “Neither am I.”
“You’re lying.”
“Not to you, my love. Never.”