‘I never look nice,’ she said. Like he was an idiot.
‘I like the way you look,’ he said. It came out more like an argument than a compliment.
‘That doesn’t mean it’s nice.’ She was whispering, too.
‘Fine then, you look like a hobo.’
‘A hobo?’ Her eyes lit.
‘Worse,’ he said. ‘Like a sad hobo clown.’
‘And you like it?’
‘I love it.’

Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

//Rainbow Rowell, 2013, Eleanor and Park