What Remains When Perfection Fades?

Chapter 9: What Remains When Perfection Fades?

The room was suffocating.

It wasn't small, not really, but the air inside felt thin, as though something had stolen all the oxygen and left only silence behind. The walls, painted in cool neutrals, had once been her sanctuary-orderly, pristine, untouched. Now, they pressed inward, tighter and tighter, squeezing around her like a vice.

Shimo sat in the center of the floor, back hunched, arms resting limply over her knees. Her hands, still stained faintly with paint, trembled where they lay. She hadn't bothered to turn on the main lights, just the dim glow of her desk lamp, which flickered slightly in the stillness. The soft hum of electricity was the only sound.

It should have been peaceful.

It wasn't.

Because she had lost.

She exhaled, slow and steady, trying to loosen the knot in her throat. But the second the thought settled in her mind - I lost - something inside her twisted.

She had lost.

After everything.

After every stroke, every sleepless night, every ache in her bones from standing too long, painting too hard-she had still lost.

And to her.

To the girl who had never even belonged there. A medical student. A stranger who had waltzed into a world that wasn't hers and taken what should have been Shimo's.

Her jaw clenched.

A shaky breath.

She tried to push the thoughts away, but they dug in, curling around her mind like vines, suffocating, growing, strangling.

The competition. The whispers. The judge's voices.

"It's raw. Honest. There's something real here."

"A stunning departure from the traditional. It breathes."

"A well-earned victory."

Her nails scraped against the fabric of her sweatpants.

What about her work?

Hadn't she done everything right? Hadn't she followed the rules? Hadn't she bent herself into something flawless?

Was that not enough?

She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling sharply.

'No.'

No, she wouldn't cry. She wouldn't break.

Her fingers twitched.

She needed to do something. Fix something. Anything.

And then-her eyes landed on it.

The painting.

It sat where it always had, leaned carelessly against the far wall, half-hidden beneath a pile of abandoned sketches.

Shimo stilled.

A moment passed.....

Then another.

Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, her limbs heavy, like she had been moving through water. Each step toward the painting felt unnatural, like she wasn't the one commanding her body forward.

When she reached it, she hesitated.

The canvas was coated in dust. She hadn't looked at it in months.

And yet, she hadn't thrown it away.

Why?

Her fingers ghosted over the surface, not to wipe it clean, not to erase the evidence of time-but to feel it.

The texture was rough beneath her touch, the uneven layers of paint dry and cracked in places.

It was wrong.

It was messy.

It was not perfect.

And yet.

It existed.

She swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

Why?

Why did it feel more alive than anything she had ever created?

More than her carefully calculated masterpieces. More than the portraits she had spent weeks refining.

More than the painting that had lost.

She stepped back, arms wrapping around herself, as if that could hold her together.

She could hear her father's voice in her head.

"Mistakes cost you the win."

Her mother's voice.

"You've been chasing something that doesn't exist."

And now-standing before this discarded piece of herself -she began to wonder.

Had they been right?

Was she chasing something that wasn't real?

Her breath came faster now, shallow and uneven.

No. No, that couldn't be true.

Because if it was then what was she?

A lie?

A fraud?

Her legs gave out, and she sank to her knees.

The weight of everything pressed against her, relentless and unforgiving.

She had dedicated years to perfection. She had sharpened herself like a blade, carved away everything soft, everything human, in pursuit of something pure, something untouchable.

And now-

Now, she wasn't sure if she had anything left.

Her chest tightened.

Her vision blurred.

She wanted to scream. To rip the painting apart. To throw it across the room and watch it break-because if it could still exist while she was falling apart, then what did that mean?

Why did this flawed, unwanted thing get to survive when she felt like she was drowning?

Her nails dug into her arms.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't-

A sharp inhale.

Then, silence.

She let go.

Her hands fell limp at her sides.

She didn't tear the painting apart.

She didn't move it.

She just... sat there.

Breathing.

Existing.

Like the painting.

Like something flawed, something unfinished-something whole, despite it all.

She wasn't ready to accept it yet.

But she couldn't deny that, for the first time-just for a moment-she wasn't sure if she still believed in perfection.

She stared at the painting.

And it stared back.

It didn't move. It didn't breathe. And yet, somehow, it felt more alive than she did.

Shimo's fingers twitched.

"What are you?"

Her voice was barely above a whisper, cracking like glass.

She wasn't sure if she was talking to the painting or herself.

"What am I?"

She swallowed hard.

Her whole life, she had known the answer to that question. She was Shimo kiristuga, the girl who did not fail. The girl who carved her own existence out of sheer will. The girl who strived-no, demanded-perfection.

Perfection.

She inhaled sharply.

"What does that even mean anymore?"

Perfection was supposed to be absolute. Undeniable.

It was supposed to mean she was above them.

Above the ones who settled for mediocrity.

Above the ones who lacked discipline.

Above the ones who let their emotions control them.

Above the ones who lost.

And yet, here she was.

A loser.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

"I should have won."

She had done everything right. Followed every rule, measured every stroke, ensured every detail was flawless.

"Then why... why wasn't I enough?"

The medical student-she had no business winning. She wasn't an artist. She hadn't suffered for it, hadn't poured her entire existence into it.

But she had won.

And her painting-Shimo hated it.

Not because it was bad.

But because it wasn't.

Because it was free. Because it was alive.

Because it was everything Shimo's art wasn't.

The medical student's painting soared like a bird in the sky, free and unburdened, while Shimo's work was akin to a bird desperately struggling to escape its cage.

Her breath hitched.

"Was I the one who was wrong?"

The thought terrified her.

If she wasn't right-if perfection wasn't the answer-then what had she been chasing all this time?

She thought of that boy—the Student Council president. The one who carried his head high, so certain of his role. A leader. A figure of excellence.

He was supposed to be like her, weren't they?

But was he?

Did he ever feel this empty?

Did he ever wonder if all his achievements meant nothing?

Her father.

The man who had taught her that mistakes were acceptable, that second place was merely a step to learn more.

She didn't believe him. She didn't become what he wanted her to be.

"And now what?"

Was he proud of her?

Or was he just waiting for something else?

Her mother.

Who had always been softer, more patient, more accepting. Too accepting.

Shimo had dismissed her kindness as weakness.

But now....

Now, she wasn't sure if her mother had been weak.

Or if she had simply understood something Shimo never had.

And her brother-

He had left.

She had spent years pretending that it didn't matter, that she didn't need him. That he had been a fool to walk away from the expectations placed on them.

But he had left.

And he had survived.

Her whole life, she had thought that if she stopped chasing, she would disappear.

But maybe...

Maybe the only thing that had ever been fading was her.

Her stomach twisted.

"I don't know who I am if I'm not perfect."

The words burned on her tongue.

She looked at the painting again.

It was ugly. It was flawed. It was a mistake.

And yet, it remained.

Unapologetic.

Unashamed.

Whole.