The tension was thick in the air as we sat together at the back of the classroom, the day's lesson long over. Our professor had given us the verdict: our group's project, despite being technically sound, wasn't perfect. The presentation was lacking clarity in some areas—particularly the part where Mia had explained the graph. We could have done better. The score, though still decent, wasn't what I had been aiming for. I know we could have achieved a higher one—if only Mia hadn't made those mistakes.
Mia is sitting across from me, chewing on the end of her pen nervously, her gaze shifting to Kiel and Lincoln, as if hoping they'll somehow help alleviate the building storm. But they're staying quiet, sensing that this conversation is about to get ugly. I can feel the heat rising in my chest. The frustration is eating at me. I had prepared for this. I had done everything right. I had kept everything on track, organized every piece of data. And then Mia had to go and mess it up with her sloppy explanations, her vague responses, and her inability to answer questions clearly.
I can't hold it in any longer.
"How could you not understand how important the graph was, Mia?" I hissed, my voice dripping with frustration. "How could you mess up the one thing that could make or break the whole presentation?" I barely notice how the rest of the group shifts uncomfortably in their seats, Lincoln looking away, Kiel watching me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
Mia looks down at her hands, visibly shrinking under the force of my words. "I… I didn't mean to," she murmurs, but it's not enough. It's never enough. She doesn't get it. She never does. I need to make her understand the weight of what she's done—the weight of her mistake.
"This is exactly why I hate relying on people who can't keep up," I snapped, my words biting into the air. "We all agreed that the graph was crucial! And you couldn't even explain it properly. We could've aced this, but now we're stuck with a mediocre score. Because of you!"
Mia flinches, but she doesn't stay silent for long. Her voice cracks, a trace of hurt in her tone. "I didn't—I'm sorry, Keiyi. I didn't mean to mess it up. I thought I was doing it right."
"Oh, you thought?" I snapped, mocking her. "That's your problem, Mia. You 'thought' you could handle it. But you didn't. You don't take things seriously, and now we all pay the price."
"Keiyi, you need to chill out," Lincoln interrupts, but his voice is hesitant, like he's walking on thin ice. "This isn't just Mia's fault. We're all part of the problem. You don't need to blame her like this. And besides, 95 is not a bad grade. We still got the highest score."
I round on him, my fury not yet spent. "Oh, don't give me that," I seethed, feeling my pulse quicken. "If Mia had just paid attention, just once, this wouldn't have happened. We wouldn't be sitting here talking about how we barely passed. Do you realize what that means?"
Lincoln shifts uncomfortably in his seat, clearly not wanting to escalate things further. But I can't stop now. But then, out of nowhere, Kiel speaks up. His voice is calm, surprisingly level-headed in the middle of my storm. "Keiyi, you're missing the point." He looked at me, steady and unfazed, but there's a sharpness behind his words that catches me off guard. "It's not just Mia's fault. We all could have done better. This whole thing was a group effort, and if something went wrong, it's on all of us. We should have communicated better. We should have caught the mistakes earlier. You can't just pin it all on her."
I stared at him, trying to hold back the rising tide of anger. What is he talking about? Is he seriously defending her? Of course, it's Mia's fault. She's the one who couldn't explain the graph. She's the one who messed everything up.
"No, Kiel," I argued, my voice sharp. "If Mia had done her part right, we wouldn't be in this situation. She messed it up, and that's the truth. If we had followed the plan, if she had just listened, we wouldn't have this stupid, incomplete result."
But Kiel doesn't flinch. He kept his gaze steady, and I can see the subtle hint of disappointment in his eyes. "It's not just about the plan, Keiyi," he said quietly. "It's about the way we worked together. And I'm not saying Mia is perfect, but she's not the only one who dropped the ball here."
A flicker of doubt crept into my mind. What is he trying to say? That it's my fault too? That I'm somehow to blame for the way this turned out? I don't want to believe it. I can't.
"A little common sense wouldn't hurt," I muttered under my breath, but my words are shaky. It's like a reflex now—something to say to push back against the doubt creeping in. It's easier to say it than to admit that maybe, just maybe, I didn't get everything right.
But Kiel doesn't let it slide. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, his tone even but firm. "And a little empathy wouldn't hurt either," he counters. "Keiyi, you're so caught up in being right, in having everything perfect, that you forget people aren't machines. Mia is trying, even if it's not up to your standards. But you… you're so focused on being perfect that you miss what's right in front of you."
His words hit me like a slap in the face. I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. I felt a burning in my chest, something tight and uncomfortable that I can't quite place. What is he saying? Is he saying that I'm too cold? That I don't care about the people around me, just the results? That's not true. I do care.
But then he keeps going, his voice calm but laced with something I can't ignore. "Mia might not be as sharp as you, Keiyi, but she's more human than you are right now. She's not perfect, but at least she's trying. At least she's making an effort to be real. You… you're just acting like a robot. You're so obsessed with perfection that you've lost sight of what actually matters. Smart doesn't mean anything if you can't relate to the people around you."
The tension in the air thickens, and I can feel my chest tightening with every word Kiel says. His eyes, that soft yet steady gaze, are almost too much to handle. It's like he's seeing through me, cutting past the layers I've spent so long building. It's frustrating, maddening. And the worst part? I can't figure out why it's bothering me so much.
I took a deep breath, trying to regain control. I feel like I'm losing it.
"Why are you doing this, Kiel?" I asked, my voice coming out more biting than I intended. I don't care if I sound harsh. I don't care if he doesn't understand. "You don't get it. I have to make sure this works. I have to make sure everything is perfect. You think I enjoy pushing people? I'm just trying to get things done the right way, so we don't mess up again!"
Kiel doesn't flinch, doesn't back down. He met my gaze head-on, his eyes unwavering. It only infuriates me more.
"You think it's just about getting things done?" he said, his voice calm but sharp, like a knife cutting through a thick fog. "You're so obsessed with being perfect, that you're forgetting about the people involved. We're not robots. We're not just here to do your bidding and get the grades. You're acting like it's all about the result, like we're just tools for you to control."
My pulse spikes, my breath quickening. "What do you mean, 'tools'? This isn't about control, Kiel. This is about making sure we don't fail. This is about succeeding. I don't need you to lecture me about feelings or empathy or whatever. I need you to be smart, to understand that sometimes you have to push people to get the results. You don't get to sit there and pretend like you know how it feels to have everything on your shoulders."
His lips twitched, like he's fighting a smile or maybe just trying to hold back his frustration. "95 ain't a fail, Keiyi. And no, I don't know how it feels to have everything on my shoulders. But I know what it feels like to be treated like you're just a tool for someone else's vision of perfection. You're not a machine. People don't work like that. You can't just micromanage everything and expect everything to go your way."
I feel my hands clenched into fists, my nails biting into my palms. "You think I want to do this? I'm trying to make sure we don't screw up! If we mess up, that's my fault. That's my responsibility. But you—you're not taking this seriously. You're just sitting there, trying to stay neutral, trying to be the calm, cool guy. It's not helping! It's not enough!"
The words come out before I can stop them, and immediately, I wish I could take them back. But Kiel doesn't look angry. He looks... sad. He looks like he's actually disappointed in me.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I'm not taking this seriously. I'm not taking you seriously. Because all I see is someone who's so scared of failure that they're willing to destroy everyone around them just to stay ahead. You want control, fine. But at what cost?"
I felt a knot form in my throat. "I'm not destroying anyone. I'm trying to make sure everything works, so we don't look like idiots. I can't afford to be anything less than perfect."
"Perfect," Kiel mutters, shaking his head. "You keep saying that. You keep thinking that if you get everything perfect, everything will fall into place. But it doesn't work that way. Not in real life. And certainly not in a group. You can't control everything, Keiyi. You can't control people."
I felt a surge of frustration, a flare of heat rising in my chest. I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear him tell me I'm wrong, tell me I can't do things my way. I have to do things my way. I'm the one who's been perfecting every detail, who's been holding it together. Without me, this whole thing would fall apart. I am the one who's been keeping the group afloat, despite Mia's mistakes, despite everything.
But I don't say that. I can't say that, because deep down, I know it's true, and it feels like I'm admitting some kind of weakness, some kind of truth I'm not ready to face.
"You think it's easy for me?" I said, my voice a little quieter now, but still sharp. "You think it's easy to be the one who has to make sure everyone does their part, who has to pull things together when no one else can? It's not. But I'm the one who gets it done. I'm the one who doesn't let everything fall apart."
Kiel's eyes softened, but his words were firm. "It's not easy for any of us. But you can't keep pushing people like this. You can't keep treating them like they're beneath you just because you think you're right. Everyone has their own way of doing things, their own strengths. And you need to learn how to accept that, not force them into your perfect little mold."
I feel like throwing up. This—this is the part that I can't handle. This is the part where I lose control. The thought of not having everything exactly the way I want it makes me feel like I'm drowning.
"You're so focused on being right, so focused on being perfect, that you've lost sight of what actually matters. You're so wrapped up in the idea that everything has to be under control that you've forgotten how to let people be themselves. Let us be ourselves. Let Mia be… Mia. Let me be… me."
I can feel the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, and I quickly blink them away, angry at myself for feeling so vulnerable. But it's there—the crack in my armor, the realization that maybe I've been too harsh, too controlling. Maybe I've been too much of a perfectionist, trying to mold everything into something it was never meant to be.
Kiel doesn't say anything else, but the weight of his words hangs in the air like a heavy fog. The room feels smaller now, the space between us thick with tension. I want to say something, to make it right, but I don't know how. I don't know how to fix this.
The silence stretches on, the only sound is the thudding of my heart in my chest, and again, I feel alone.
The moment I closed my eyes, it's as though I'm back there—back in that old house, where nothing felt real except the weight of expectations pressing down on me. I was too young for this. Too young to carry the world on my shoulders, yet there I was, forced to grow up faster than I ever should have. But that's what happens when you're born into a world that doesn't see you as worthy, when every mistake you make is a reflection of your mother's shame.
I was just a child, no more than five or six when I started understanding the distance between me and the rest of the world. My mother had always been a distant figure—cold, calculating. But my grandmother, my maternal grandmother, was the one who made me understand what I was supposed to be. What I had to be. The house smelled like incense and pressure, a suffocating air that made me feel small even when I was standing tall. They would always talk in quiet, clipped voices when they thought I wasn't listening. My existence was something they tolerated, something they whispered about in hushed tones, like they didn't want the world to know I was even there.
The whispers were always there. I could hear them in the kitchen as my grandmother prepared the tea, could hear them when they thought I was asleep, could hear them every time my mother's silence spoke louder than any words ever could. "Illegitimate" was the word they used. "Shame."
I wasn't supposed to be born. I wasn't supposed to exist. And I was definitely not supposed to be a reflection of my mother's "weakness"—a flaw in her reputation, a reminder of a past that she couldn't escape. My existence was a stain, and it was one I had to scrub away every single day of my life.
I remember being around seven, maybe eight years old, sitting at the old wooden table in my grandparents' house, my mother's face contorted in frustration. I had worked for hours, maybe longer, trying to memorize something for school. A test, a report, I don't even remember what anymore. But I do remember how my mother's gaze would sharpen when I didn't get it exactly right. When I didn't reach the standard she set in her mind, it was like something in her broke. Her lips would curl in disapproval, her silence louder than any words she would have spoken. I could feel the weight of her disappointment in the pit of my stomach, like a stone sinking deep inside me. She never said it outright, but I knew it: Failure wasn't an option.
Her pride was a force of nature. And I, the child, was an extension of that pride—her pride in the face of the rumors that followed her. The rumors that said she wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't worthy. They talked about her past, about the man who abandoned her, about the mistake that was me. And she couldn't have that. She couldn't afford to let anyone think she was weak.
I had no choice but to be perfect. It wasn't just for me; it was for her. For my mother's pride. For her honor. I became her armor, her shield against the world. If I could just be the best, then maybe people would stop talking. Maybe they would stop pointing at her like she was some broken thing.
But perfection wasn't something I could just "achieve" once and then relax. It had to be consistent. It had to be constant. Every time I made a mistake, every time I fell short, I could see the disappointment in her eyes. And that disappointment felt like failure. Failure meant being less than she needed me to be. Failure meant I was the reason she'd never be free from the whispers.
It wasn't just my mother, though. It was my grandparents, too. Their harsh standards had been set long before I was born. I could hear their voices echoing in my head, demanding excellence, but it was never enough. I could never be perfect enough to earn their approval.
When I was about ten, I remember trying to help my mother with something simple, something small, like folding laundry or washing the dishes. She was angry, exhausted from work, and her voice was sharp when I made a mistake. I didn't fold the towel exactly right, or I didn't get the plates clean enough, or I didn't finish the task quickly enough. She looked at me with a mix of disdain and exhaustion. It wasn't anger—it was the kind of tired, defeated look that says you've disappointed someone for the last time.
"Can't you just get it right?" she snapped. "You make everything harder, don't you?"
Those words cut deeper than I could've known. A child shouldn't feel like they're a burden to their own mother. But that was what I was. A burden.
And it made me hate myself for it. It made me push harder, be better, be perfect, so I could make her proud. So I wouldn't feel like I was letting her down again. But every time I failed—even a little—it felt like I was failing her. I was nothing but a mistake. A mistake that could never be corrected.
That's when I realized that perfection was my only way of surviving. My way of making sure I wasn't seen as a mistake. If I could be perfect, I wouldn't have to feel the weight of their disappointment. I wouldn't have to wonder if I was enough. I'd be enough—because perfect was the only thing that mattered.
By the time I was twelve, I had become an expert at hiding any trace of imperfection. I kept my emotions locked away, buried deep inside, because feelings made me weak. And weakness... weakness was unacceptable. I didn't let anyone see that I was struggling. I didn't let anyone see my fear, my anger, my frustration. No. They only saw what they needed to see: the perfect version of me.
But the real test came when I met him—my father.
He was nothing like I imagined. I thought if I just showed him that I could be better than anyone else, he would finally see me. He would finally acknowledge me and be proud of me. But when I looked into his eyes, I didn't see a father. I saw the same disdain, the same apathy that I had felt from everyone else. To him, I was a reminder of everything he didn't want. A mistake he had to live with. I wasn't his child. I was a stain on his reputation too.
I had never known hate until that moment. It was a deep, cold hatred. Hatred not just for him but for what he represented. He hated me, hated what I was, hated the fact that I even existed in the first place. I could see it in his eyes every time he looked at me—as if my very presence disgusted him. And in that moment, I realized that nothing I could do would ever make him love me. I would never be good enough for him. And somehow, that made me hate him back.
But most of all, I hated myself for wanting something from him. For craving his affection when all he had for me was indifference. I could never be perfect enough for him. I wasn't the ideal child. I was too flawed, too broken. I couldn't fix the mistake that was my very existence.
And in its place, I became a machine—obsessed with perfection, obsessed with control, obsessed with making sure no one ever saw how much I needed them.
It's a cold way to live. But it's the only way I've ever known.
And now, as I sit here in the classroom, those old wounds ache again, resurfacing with every glance, every word. Because perfection is a burden, and I've carried it my whole life. And if I'm being honest, I don't know if I can keep carrying it. Maybe it's not enough anymore. Maybe I don't have the strength to keep pushing myself to the breaking point. But what's the alternative? To fail? To show weakness? To show that I'm nothing but the same mistake I was born as?
No. I can't.
Not when I've come this far. Not when I've built this facade.
I can feel Kiel's eyes on me, and for a brief moment, I wonder—does he see it? Does he understand why I am the way I am? Or is he just another person who expects me to be perfect?
Maybe it doesn't matter. Perfection is the only thing I know. It's the only thing I can control.
And I'll do whatever it takes to keep holding onto that.