She wasn't "pretty", not in the traditional sense. But she was unusually attractive, which was; well, unusual, just like everything else about her.
She regularly walked her dog at midnight. She could sit and just listen to music for hours at a time. She liked to pretend that she could dance with the grace and fluidity of a ballerina, when, in reality, she could barely walk ten feet without tripping over herself or running into some poor, unsuspecting, inanimate object. She was ridiculously defensive of her friends, even the ones that used her. She loved sad songs. She believed in everyone around her, but could not believe in herself. She was cynical enough to battle the Devil, but she was a hopeless romantic.
She was an oxymoron. She was… unusual. She was everything that he was not. And for that, he thought that she was lovely, in every sense of the word. She was lovelier than the most breathtaking of sunrises or the country road bathed in ethereal moonlight.
She was the quintessence of breathless moments. She was untouchable in her devastating glory; yet, he swore he would give anything to have her again.