True Beauty Rises

Beauty. They told us it lives in flawless faces, in sculpted bodies, in the fragile perfection of skin and bone. But the truth—buried deep, silent, and often ignored—is that real beauty does not shine from the surface. It burns, quietly, within the soul. This is not a tale of queens adorned in silk, nor of angels crowned with radiance. This is the story of a girl the world never chose—pushed, silenced, shamed by the very hands meant to protect her. A girl who learned that mirrors can wound sharper than knives, and that a mother’s words can weigh heavier than chains. It is also the story of a man who built cities from stone, yet found himself trapped in walls of pride and rage—an architect forced to bow to power, until defiance became his only freedom. Two paths. Two wounded spirits. And when their worlds collide, beauty will be tested, faith will be questioned, and perfection will be stripped of its mask. For true beauty—unchained, unbroken— always rises from the soul. The soul may hide behind a mask, Yet truth will rise, it dares to ask: What weight is carried, deep inside— A wound no beauty can disguise. --- She sank into the nearest chair the moment the crew was dismissed for a short break. Her reflection in the large mirror loomed before her: round cheeks flushed with shame, eyes swollen from holding back tears, lips trembling. She hated mirrors, hated the way they told truths no one could escape. Behind her, her mother paced like a restless hawk, her heels clicking against the studio floor. “You’ll thank me one day,” the woman declared, her tone more cruel than comforting. “Discipline makes queens. Weakness makes corpses. I won’t let you bury yourself in food.” The words stabbed deeper than the slap. Gratitude? For humiliation? For starvation? Her chest ached with the weight of an answer she dared not speak. A knock at the door saved her from replying. A young assistant peeked in. “Ten minutes, miss. We’re ready for the test shots.” Her mother answered for her. “She’ll be there. Perfect and ready.” The door closed. Silence thickened. Her stomach growled, loud and traitorous. Her mother’s eyes narrowed at the sound, like a judge catching a criminal in the act. --- Outside, Abed strode down the corridor, fists still clenched. His temper burned like fire under his skin. He wanted nothing more than to leave, to breathe fresh air, to forget this building and everyone in it. But fate had a twisted sense of humor. For as he pushed past the last corner, he saw her again—the girl from before. She stood near the dressing room door, shoulders hunched, eyes lowered, as though bracing for a storm. He almost barked at her once more. But something in her expression stopped him cold. A sadness so raw, so heavy, it pulled at him despite himself. He slowed, against his will. For a brief second, their eyes met in the silence of the corridor. Two strangers, each wounded in different ways, bound by nothing but the weight of their invisible battles. Then he turned away, shoving the moment aside, refusing to admit it had touched him. She, however, stood frozen, staring after him—her heart whispering questions she could not name. --- She did not dare look at him, though she could feel his eyes fixed upon her—sharp, searching, almost invasive. With a quiet shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut. She did not need another dose of mockery, not from a stranger, not here, not now. Her mother’s voice was already a constant blade, carving her down piece by piece every single day. The whispers from neighbors, the cruel glances from relatives, the endless comments about her weight—all of it pressed upon her chest like an immovable stone. One more word, one more smirk, and she feared she would collapse into tears before him. She turned, desperate to flee before the dam inside her burst. Yet he stepped forward and blocked her path. His presence was tall, immovable, like a wall she had no strength to climb. He bent slightly, trying to catch her eyes—the same eyes she stubbornly hid from him, turning her face away like a wounded child refusing medicine. But he was insistent. He wanted to see her. He wanted to read the truth written there. “Please… just a moment—” he began softly. But before his words could take shape, another voice sliced the air like a whip. Her mother. The sound of her heels struck the tiles as she entered, searching, predatory, and then she found her. She did not acknowledge the man blocking her daughter’s path. She barely registered his existence. Instead, she spoke with that cutting sharpness her daughter knew all too well—half sneer, half command, and entirely void of tenderness. “i***t girl! Stand there—what nonsense are you doing? You should be preparing for the shoot. Do you think anyone will accept you looking like that? Who would ever want you, you elephant?” The word elephant landed with a thud inside her chest. She bit her lip, hard. How many times had her mother said it? How many times had she swallowed the shame of it? She clenched her fists against her sides, silently begging the earth to swallow her whole. But another voice answered—a male voice, sharp with indignation. “Excuse me,” the stranger said, annoyance ringing clear, “you have no right to speak to her like that. You should reconsider the way you treat her. If I were in her place—” Her mother cut him off with a mocking laugh, one manicured hand pressed to her chest as though to remind the world of who she was. “Me? Shadia Hanem—Miss Egypt, an international fashion model—be compared to that elephant? Look at me! I am the definition of elegance and femininity. Even now, everyone chases me, no one believes my age. And her? She’s invisible. No one will ever look at her twice.” The daughter’s eyes brimmed with tears. Her throat closed. She could not take more—not today, not here. With a strangled gasp, she turned and fled deeper into the studio, away from their voices, away from the humiliation that soaked into her like poison. The stranger—his name, she would later learn, was Abed—watched her go, anger rising in his chest like fire. For days he had been carrying the bitterness of his own struggles: the arrogance of his employer, the weight of expectations, the suffocating demands placed upon him. And now, before him, stood a woman tearing down her own child with the cruelty of a butcher. Something inside him snapped. “Enough, lady,” he barked, fury unrestrained. “Have some respect for your age—you’re old enough to be her grandmother. Keep your poison to yourself. Her body is none of your business. Leave her alone.” The mother’s face twisted with outrage, a mask of insulted royalty. How dare a man—any man—speak to her in such a tone? With a sharp wave of her hand, she gestured to the security guards, men who knew her face well from her many visits to the studio and from her lingering fame. “Throw him out! Get this boy out of my sight. Never let me see him here again. He must learn who I am. I am Shadia Hanem! You rat, you insect—you dare raise your voice at me?” The guards obeyed without hesitation. Rough hands seized Abed by the arms, dragging him out like an unwanted stray. He stumbled but kept his fists clenched at his sides, resisting the primal urge to strike back. Dust clung to his clothes, and humiliation clung to his pride. He shook himself free once they hurled him outside, brushing at his sleeves with short, sharp movements. He wanted—oh, how he wanted—to storm back inside, to curse them all, to hurl their cruelty back at their faces. But reason held him still. More trouble would only tighten the noose already around his neck. He breathed deep, forcing the fury down into his gut. He was about to leave when she appeared before him again. For one suspended heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. She stood there, framed by the doorway, the morning light falling upon her features in a way that stole his. The cruel word—elephant—that her mother had spat out rang false now. This was no beast. This was a woman—raw, unpolished perhaps, but breathtaking in a way that struck him to his core. His breath caught. Desire—unwelcome, dangerous—slid into his thoughts. What blindness had possessed the world, that no one saw her? That they mocked, belittled, and crushed her spirit? His gaze traced the curve of her cheek, the depth of her eyes, the fragile strength trembling in her posture. She was not the shame her mother painted her to be. She was… something else. Something vivid. Something real. He shook his head quickly, pulling himself back from the edge of thoughts he had no right to entertain. She was like coffee in the dawn, rich and intoxicating, and he—already weakened by anger—was perilously close to addiction. Her voice broke through his storm of thoughts, soft and hesitant. “I’m… I’m sorry for what happened…” Before she could say more, he moved closer, bowing slightly in an old-world gesture that startled her. He reached for her hand, lifted it gently, and pressed his lips against her skin with a grace she had never experienced. “Sukarti,” he whispered, the word sliding from his tongue like a promise, “never apologize again. Not to them. It is they who should beg forgiveness from you.” She blinked rapidly, her mind reeling. That word—strange and sweet, unfamiliar yet intimate—clung to her ears. Her brows knit together in confusion. “Who… who do you mean?” she asked in a trembling whisper. Abed’s lips curved into a confident smile. “Those who wrong you, of course. The ones who throw insults at you as though they were gifts. Like that painted queen in there. She must have forgotten what mirrors are for. She looks like a canvas splattered with colors, and still dares to preach about beauty.” His tone was light, almost mocking, but his eyes carried a fierce conviction that struck her deeper than any insult ever had. For the first time in a long while, she felt something shift inside her chest. Not shame, not sorrow—something smaller, gentler, almost fragile. Hope. To be continued…