When the footsteps are lighter, everyone knows something’s wrong. When I gasp for air, and feel tears running down my own face, it’s pretty obvious I’m not okay. 

“She is a bright kid, but she’s just not enough.” 

“You need to work harder.”

“Look at your friends. I wish you could be more like them.” 

Everyone is disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in myself. I’m mad for never being good enough, for not being perfect.

Perfect. What a strange, strange word. Everything has to be perfect or else it’s not “enough”. If I don’t get 100%, I “fail” at it. If my essay is missing just a little word, it’s not complete. I need to be perfect, I need to be perfect, I need to be better than the rest. 

Suddenly, everything seems so important. A little dash next to my A can make me cry. I see my friends shining bright with perfection, satisfaction, and pride, shining with perfect scores and perfect...everything. I’m jealous. People are always comparing me to everyone else. I’m always comparing myself. My clothes, my grades, my popularity, my life. 

Today was one of those days where I cried. These days have become very common now. People asked if I was okay, although they knew I was not. I said I was fine, although I knew that I wasn't. I tried to push the tears back, hoping it would work for the first time. But it doesn’t. The hot, guilty, and bitter tears ooze out of my eyes like the chocolate inside the lava cake. It spills down my face. It makes my life swollen and sour. It attracts the attention of everyone I don’t want to talk with. 

I bite my lip, turn towards the wall. I throw my hair out from behind my eyes so they can cover up my whole face. Cover up my stupidity. Cover up my weaknesses and shallowness. My dumbness, my guilt, my jealousy. My heart. 

            “I’M FINE!” I want them to leave me alone. But they never do. They try to calm me down like I’m some sort of baby where you can just pop a milk bottle into their mouths and they’ll be fine. One of them grabs my arm. One of them whispers my name in a gentle voice. I yank my hand out of their reach, and I run. 

I run and run and run. I shove open the door and don’t even look back. I ice out all their voices, all their fake support. I know they just do it to be nice. They’re probably happy that I didn’t beat them. They don’t have to deal with the pain. They are perfect, effortlessly. 

I don’t care how cruel I am, how negative I am. I don’t care if I’m overreacting or if I’m complaining. I wish I could not care about everything else. I wish I didn’t have to care about being perfect. Why can’t I be that girl who looks at her B and just shrugs it off and goes back into laughing with her sea of flawless friends? Why can’t I be the person that just promises everyone that I’ll work harder and keep on striving for my goals? Why am I even wasting my time crying? Why?

I don’t even know where I am running to. I just keep crying and have my legs do all the work. My heart burns, my head hurts, but I keep running. With all the tears in my eyes, I can barely see. I can only hope. But is there even a point in hoping?

As the wind carries me through the familiar streets, I feel the tears that had once formed rivers on my face drying. The anger slowly cools, into a refreshing chill. The madness in my heart is replaced with gasping for air to support my run.

 I slow down to walk, and only then do I notice my surroundings. I am in a park, one that I’m not quite familiar with. Everything seems to be coated with the magic of the night. Above, stars glisten against the fairytale sky, bright and full of hope. My tears have completely dried. 

Then, I see it. A giant tree, many times my size, welcomes me with outstretched branches. It looks down at me the way my grandmother used to, gentle, and radiating love. I walk up, and place my hand amongst the twists and turns of its bark. My hand finds a steady grip. My foot lands itself on the tree’s hearty trunk. Slowly, as I make my way up into the heart of the tree, I can feel my lips beaming in spite of myself.

I sit myself on a branch, high up in the tree. Despite being a good few feet off the ground, I don’t feel scared, instead I am filled with a sense of belonging and comfort. It feels just right. As I gaze down on the city lights twinkling in the darkness, I realize perfect doesn’t have to be without flaws. Perfect can be exactly, perfect is my personalized “just right” , the right balance of qualities, emotions, ideas, thoughts, even imperfections, that make you feel you. Perfection is beauty from the within, beauty that cannot be taken away. It might not be the definition in the dictionary, but to me, it's a much better way to live, as opposed to judging self worth based on test scores and society’s approval. 

I am perfect. You are perfect. We are all enough. 

The world around me slowly vanishes as I drift off into the clouds, my body relaxed, a calm smile spread across my face. 

It’s all so perfect.