If somebody pointed out Natalie Portman's forehead gives Sonakshi Sinha's something to worry about, i'd laugh along. (One of the benefits of being a joke is you can always take one!) It's never been as much about physical attributes as it is about one's perspective of a person one blindly admires. You won't end up together—that's a given—no matter what. As a consequence, in your head, even imperfections contribute to that bigger picture called beauty. You're already sold to an idea of being in love with an imaginary person. Nothing can save you now. Too late. What you can do though is appreciate the depth of mental consumption: staying in awe of the way s/he moves with their words. Rare species merit rarer priorities. You love them because they are. They exist in your very universe. Vocal yet subtle; still yet meandering. These amazing souls burn with a mysterious delight. There's pain from the past involved somewhere, of course. They don't reveal much but somehow fill the vacuum. In case you're mistaken about them, it can't possibly be worse than your status quo. Despite being so incredible, not only do they fail to realize it but also bleed like poetry. They compel you to abuse the word 'wonderful' like never before. With such a scenario around you, how do you explain yourself? Well, you don't. You simply seek home.