Perfection is a lonely crown

I suppose I could be careless. I could scribble my assignments in dull graphite, half-hearted and crumpled at the edges, like the girls who roll their eyes when I raise my hand in class. I could let a question pass me by, let someone else answer. But why should I? Why should I shrink myself just to make them comfortable?

I’m not sorry for my neat handwriting and perfect grades. I'm not sorry that my makeup and outfits are flawless every day, or that I wealth you could wish for. Weekends in luxury hotels and money lying in my room, forgotten. I’m not sorry for the way the teachers linger on my essays or the way I make it all look effortless—because it is. Perfection isn’t a burden to me; it’s a crown. And while they’d rather break it than wear it themselves, that’s not my problem.

I have forgotten who I am, and tried to blend in, become invisible. But I am no longer there. It’s funny how admiration turns sour so quickly. Girls who once whispered for help on tests now whisper behind my back. They call me names that don’t fit, act like my kindness is something sharp, something dangerous. And maybe to them, it is. But their jealousy is such a predictable shade of green, almost flattering in a way.

It doesn’t help that downtown, I’m something else. Shops ask me to model their clothes, drape me in silk and lace, let me parade in their windows. And oh, the way their faces burn when they see me in a new dress, light catching in my hair, attention falling on me like it’s gravity. They’d rather call me conceited than admit they wish they could be me.

But not him.

He watches me differently. Not with spite, not with jealousy—but hunger. Like I’m a question he can’t answer, a poem he can’t quite write. I feel his gaze in class, the way he lingers when I speak, the way he listens when others don’t. And when he smiles at me, it’s not like the others. It’s real. It's something rare, something perfect, something I might just let myself want. Late night texts leads me to lean towards him and ask if he wants to join a group project. He's half Swedish, half German, and a head taller than me.

Perfection is a lonely crown. But if he keeps looking at me like that, maybe I won’t wear it alone.

Yours Truly, Lenna 👑