"Hey Beautiful"

"Hey—"

"Hey, beautiful," I interrupted. 

Sarah's line was mostly quiet except for her breathing. She cleared her throat in the way she did when she was trying to gain control of her emotions. 

I pushed through my own emotional barrier and dared to repeat myself while clutching my chest. "Hey beautiful."

"Stop."

So I stopped. I could now hear Sarah quietly crying. I could picture her sniffling and holding the phone away from her face and maybe she was in the bathroom doing her makeup because I could almost hear that familiar, slight echoey sound. 

I imagined her replying, "None of my other friends tell me this," or "Thank you I needed to hear this". And I think she knew I would've respond in my curt, dismissive way—the way I did when trying to suppress my discomfort— "Just calling it like it is." So instead she said nothing. But I wished she had said something. Because I had prepared to subvert her expectations. I had prepared to remain silent and let that awkward silence hang between us.

And Sarah was beautiful. In the way she giggled. In the way she told stories with such enthusiasm and with funny voices. In the way her hair was luscious but at the same time she'd also dress in sweatpants to fancy bars. I knew that anywhere I took her, we would have the time of our lives. She didn't have to try... The way she'd been trying with her recent paramours. 

It was odd to see her put in any effort. The makeup didn't come from a place of fun. She was using it to be liked. I saw her laugh in ways I hadn't seen her laugh before. It would come out sudden and at a higher pitch and I would look at her while I third-wheeled wondering who this Sarah was I saw before me. In the past I had jokingly named this alter-ego Britney. Sarah had laughed at this, but she's good at masking her emotions, so I hated myself for calling her that in the off-chance it bothered her. 

But maybe that's what friends are for: calling each other out.

And here I was. Calling her out. Calling her beautiful. Not for any attempt at making her face appear more beautiful. Or any attempt to laugh in a way that could attract a potential lover. But for being herself. 

"You're beautiful too," she said. 

"Aw thanks," I said, a little too quickly and without much enthusiasm. I'd heard that saying 'thank you' usually made the awkward compliments stop. Sarah didn't stop though.

"You're beautiful," she repeated. 

And I felt my face harden and my neck tense and I clutched my chest and I cried quietly, holding the phone away from my face. If I could've read her thoughts, I would've seen a pretty similar train of thought to mine.

Sarah had seen me at the comedy club telling jokes that didn't match my personality. She saw my attempts at zinger comedy that came from what I'd seen other comics do. She saw me talk to my boss one time with what she called my 'radio voice'. And she wished she hadn't made fun of me for that. 

But maybe that's what friends are for: calling each other out. 

And now she was calling me out. And calling me beautiful. For my laugh. My real laugh that made my body shake and tears quickly fill my eyes. For the way I would jump with excitement when she suggested we canoe down the Delaware. For the face I'd make when I tried a new, delicious Asian food dish. 

How I wish our thoughts could've communicated with each other. 

But they didn't really have to. 

We understood all of this in an instant and read each other's minds in the simple words "Hey beautiful".