Chapter 62:In the shadows of perfection.
The moonlight filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting a cold, silvery sheen across my room. The only other light is from my desk lamp, creating a pool of brightness around my canvas, like a painting of a river using advance ink.
I sit hunched over my work, fingers stained with paint of different colors , I was struggling to concentrate. My thoughts keep drifting to the scattered papers on the floor, each a testament to my relentless pursuit of perfection.
I glance at the pile of sketches—more than twenty, each one discarded. They lie there like failed experiments, taunting me with their imperfections. To me, they are testament of my inadequacies. I see every flaw, every detail that I able to capture.
As I face each failed attempt, it feels like a dark, stormy hue of indigo tightening around my chest, a knot of deep blue shadows that compress with every mistake. My once vibrant palette of hopes turns into an overwhelming expanse of muted grays and washed-out whites, where frustration bleeds through like heavy streaks of crimson. Each error splatters the canvas with harsh reds and bruised purples, leaving streaks of exasperation that mar the once-blank paper, now stained with the burden of unfulfilled aspirations.
"Why can't I get this right?" I whisper to the empty room, my voice trembling.
Despite the praise and recognition from teachers and peers, self-doubt haunts me. Each accolade raises the bar higher, pushing me to outdo myself each time. I live in constant fear that one mistake will reveal me as a fraud. It's a gnawing anxiety, paralyzing my creativity.
The echoes of my parent's voices swirl in my mind like a persistent shade of gray, their well-intentioned advice blending into a monochrome backdrop of expectations. Their words, 'Art is a hobby, Shimo, not a career. You need to be realistic,' resonate like streaks of cold steel-blue across a canvas of my thoughts, casting long, dark shadows that obscure my vibrant aspirations. Each repetition of their counsel drapes a veil of muted greens over my dreams, the color of compromise and practicality, adding layers of pressure that mingle with the intensity of the crimson doubts I impose upon myself.
I pick up the brush again, dipping it into the paint. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel the weight of every expectation bearing down on me. I glance at a particularly intricate sketch on the floor—a portrait of a classmate laughing. It was one of my favorites, but I discarded it because the eyes weren't quite right. I remember spending hours on it, obsessing over details. It's a painful reminder that even my best efforts seem inadequate.
The brush trembles in my hand as I start to paint anew. I'm trying to capture a vision that feels just out of reach, a perfection that never quite materializes. The night wears on, and the moonlight shifts, casting new shadows in the room. My eyes grow heavy, and exhaustion seeps into my bones. But I can't stop. I can't rest until I get it right.
As dawn begins to break, I put down my brush, feeling the weight of my frustration and fatigue. I look at the sketches on the floor—each a testament to my struggle with perfectionism. To me, they are failures. I'm haunted by the thought that I'm never quite good enough, never quite meeting the standards I set for myself.
I collapse onto my bed, paint-splattered and drained. I want to believe that tomorrow will be different, that I'll finally achieve the perfection I'm chasing. But deep down, I know the cycle will continue. I'll face the same struggles, the same relentless pursuit of an unattainable ideal.
Then, something comes to mind.
"...What did I do wrong?" I sit in my room, the warm rays of the sun falling gently on me. My heart feels heavy from the confrontation with Ren. Although part of me is glad that I was there to help clean him with a wet towel, if I hadn't gone to his house at that moment, something terrible might have happened. It took some time, but what matters is the result.
Yet, the weight remains.
I wanted to help him. I wanted him to regain his health, to see him well again. And yet, despite my intentions, I was pushed away.
'Was I a bother to him?' This question circles my mind repeatedly.
"What did I do wrong?" The same question escapes my lips again. I fall to the floor, the cold, hard surface meeting my body. It's uncomfortable on my neck but oddly comforting. It helps calm my mind, a place where I often go to sort out my thoughts and find inspiration for my art.
My heart aches as I remember his expression—the way he looked at me, the way he spoke.
'...Should I give up?'
"Honey, come and have your breakfast." My ears perk up at the sound of my mother's voice. The thought that had consumed me for seconds is pushed aside as I jump up from the floor and rush to the kitchen. I don't want my parents to be involved in this problem. It's my issue to solve.
When I arrive in the kitchen, I see that my mother hasn't even halfway finished cooking. This is disappointing; it's happened before. Mom would call me down before breakfast is ready, and if I'm not there, she would start yelling. If I am down, she'll assign me random tasks, like taking out the trash, as Dad often comes home at 1 AM and needs to sleep. I still don't understand why he works so much; it's confusing.
"Since you're already here, go and set the table. Your father will be leaving early today." I watch as my mother cooks, her hands moving with practiced ease. Her right hand flips vegetables in a sizzling pan, while her left hand expertly chops with fluid precision. It's a testament to years of practice and dedication.
I open the drawer and start searching for the dishes.
'...what should I do....?'this thought was looming over my head like a black color which shouldn't belong there.
"Shimo," she begins, her eyes never leaving her task, "Cooking is much like love. Both require extra attention, consideration, patience, and, above all, practice." Her voice is calm and gentle, filling the kitchen with something other than the sweet aroma of cooking. "When I first started cooking, I was far from skilled. I burned dishes and made a mess. Sometimes, your dad and I would eat the burnt food I made. Hehe... those were times..." She smiles softly, a nostalgic laugh escaping her lips, reflecting on countless meals shared and memories made. Her left hand pauses with an unfinished onion, while her right hand continues to toss the pan's contents.
If I were to describe what Mom feels right now, it would be nostalgia.
"Just like in love, practice makes all the difference. It's not about grand gestures but rather the small, seemingly insignificant efforts that matter. Those small efforts are what make life worth living and beautiful. 'Thank you,' 'Sorry,' 'I'll be going now,' 'I'm home'—these small things are what matter. These brief sentences, with at most three words, are what make the difference."
I remain still, absorbing her words.
I look at her and see that she's still cooking, her focus unwavering. "Remember, Shimo, the best dish and the best relationships can't be created overnight. They require time and patience. You need to stay by his side when he's struggling, when he's indecisive, when he's in denial. That's what you should do—if you truly care about him."
I can't find the words. I'm grateful, truly grateful for her understanding and for guiding me towards the right path.
She returns to cooking. "Now go and finish setting the table. Afterward, pour your efforts into creating the best dish you can at the moment."
With a burst of energy, I rush to the table, placing all the plates. As I'm doing this, a few nearly slip from my hands. I close my eyes, bracing for the sound of breaking porcelain, but it never comes.
I open my eyes to see Dad holding the plates, setting them on the table. He looks toward the kitchen and says, "You should have woken me up, Mirua!"
Mirua, that's my mother's name.
Mom glances at us, smiles, and continues cooking. "You looked like you needed that sleep. You looked so cute sleeping like a log, Souichi-san!"
Souichi, that's Dad's name.
Mom has brown hair, usually tied in a ponytail. There are many things about Mom that make me envious, including her body. Yes, I'm envious of my mother's body—a daughter jealous of her mother's figure. It's a strange thing to be envious of. She manages the shop and is a cheerful housewife. Although she is usually sweet, she can be incredibly scary at times—super scary.
Dad also has brown hair, though his is a messy chocolate brown. Sometimes I wonder how they ended up together. Arranged marriage? It would make sense. He works as a police officer.
I often ponder how Dad managed to marry someone like Mom. It's confusing, but I've stopped dwelling on it. I tell myself that Dad must be kind-hearted, and that must be the reason.
••••••••
As Shimo leaves, I'm left alone in the quiet kitchen, where the warmth of the stove contrasts sharply with the chill of my thoughts.
I glance at the pan sizzling with oil, its crackling sounds a reminder of the task at hand, yet my mind drifts far from the recipe before me. My advice to her was a mix of seasoned wisdom and experience, but now, as I stir the pot, I ponder the deeper truth of what I shared.I recall my younger days, full of ambitious recipes and culinary dreams, wrestling with the same fears and uncertainties that now plague Shimo.
Just as cooking demands more than just enthusiasm—it requires patience, attention, and a willingness to embrace the imperfections of each dish—so too does love require more than grand declarations. It thrives on the everyday acts of care, the gentle simmering of understanding, and the acceptance of each flawed but heartfelt attempt.
Years of culinary practice have taught me that perfection is not the goal but the journey. It's the careful chopping, the slow simmer, and the tender seasoning that matter most, much like how relationships are nurtured through consistent, small acts of love and support.
The art of cooking, like the art of love, lies in the small, persistent efforts that transform simple ingredients into something meaningful.Watching Shimo struggle, I feel a surge of empathy. She's so focused on achieving an ideal that she overlooks the beauty of the process—the slow rise of dough, the gradual melding of flavors.
I hope she sees that being present through someone's struggles, much like patiently tending a pot, is what fosters a deep and meaningful connection.Love, like cooking, requires patience and the ability to appreciate the imperfect. It's not about flawless moments but about savoring the journey and finding joy in the effort. I hope that as I continue preparing breakfast, my hope that my words have provided her with a hint of clarity will be realized.
In every challenge and doubt, there's an opportunity to grow, to learn, and to cherish the imperfect beauty of life and love. I hope she realizes that.