Former cover by: AlateSchmetterling 💖

Current cover by: ii_mermxid 💞💞

The tip of my pen clicked against the desk at a steady pace, making up the only noise—although faint—in the office. But in my ears, an invasive pulse rang. It was suffocating, waiting to hear the response to my application. To manage it, I could only tap the pen to the wood, wobble my foot side to side, and brush through the ends of my hair, awaiting the news. 

My mind focused on the possible outcomes. I could be rejected; there were thousands of other applicants to the program, and I was likely an amateur in comparison. Or, perhaps I would be accepted as an alternate. But even then, the thought of the school announcing this "accomplishment" was somehow more terrifying. I could foresee my peers hearing the news and translating it as inadequate. 

However, if I won... what then? The possibility filled my body with a rush of excitement. I could picture myself squealing in glee, my parents celebrating, my friends congratulating me, and my classmates applauding me. It would be a dream come true to be accepted. 

But I had to remind myself that it wasn't likely, and more importantly, I didn't deserve it compared to the other applicants. Most of them had probably worked on the application in advance, not at the last minute like me. And they doubtlessly held a superior skill level to me. Even if I was accepted, I knew I wouldn't be satisfied. Anyone else would have procrastinated less and worked harder for this, so I didn't doubt I'd be unhappy with success as well. 

What did I want then? Failure? No. Semi-success? Definitely not. Complete success? Somehow, also no.

My thoughts—but certainly not my fidgeting—were interrupted with a glance at the pen. An obnoxious black blob of ink rested directly where I had been tapping the tip of the pen to the desk, and although the wood was already dark, it didn't bother concealing the stain. I gasped and hurriedly wiped the spot with my fingers, but the ink smeared more across the surface and smudged on my skin. 

Before I could start cleaning it, the office door opened and my counselor strode in. In a swift move, I covered the mark with my stained hand and faced her with a posed smile. She made her way to her desk, unaware of the permanent mark tainting it. My panic to clean it faded, and replacing it, the anxiety returned. She asked how I was feeling, and I replied—as usual—that I was "doing well." But my stomach lurched with every internal reminder that failure was anticipated. 

The counselor sat in her chair, various books and files blocking her view of the ink splotch, yet I was too anxious to move. She shifted slightly before steadying herself and making eye contact. I struggled to maintain it. 

"Are you excited? Nervous?" she questioned. It was innocent, but it riled my nerves more.

"A little nervous," I admitted. Why couldn't she get to the point?

"Well, don't be." Easy for her to say. "I'll be proud of you no matter what the results are."

I swallowed. Would I be proud of myself, though?

The counselor sighed. "Are you ready to hear it?"

I clenched my jaw, hiding it behind a tense hand. I nod, and the rest of my body stills as her mouth opens.

"I'm sorry," she states, "but your application was rejected."

I took in a breath, but it didn't seem to end. My face was steady, unwavering, but my mind was in shock from the news. I should've seen it coming—why even be surprised? But I just couldn't contain my thoughts. I wanted an explanation, but simultaneously knew I was just incompetent; what explanation could I possibly receive besides that?

I mustered a solemn nod. As the counselor continued speaking—undoubtedly explaining that I did well regardless—my mind screamed over her.

"You could've done better!" it exclaimed. "No, you should've done better! How could you ever expect to be accepted anyway? You've never been skilled enough to make it. You're top of the class? Forget that; you don't deserve it anyway.

"You deserve nothing. You are nothing."

The lump in my throat bulged, and despite my persistent swallowing, it refused to falter. Tears swelled with it, but by not blinking, I managed to keep them from falling, and even if the counselor noticed, she said nothing. After too much time sitting and holding in my emotions, she sent me back to class.

But even then, I couldn't let anything out. My peers wandered the halls, and although few were there during class, I couldn't let anybody see me upset. Then, they may have asked questions, and I couldn't allow anyone to find out. After walking down the hall at a fast pace, I approached the restrooms, and rather than going to class as I knew was best, I swerved in, turned on a sink, and tossed myself inside the largest stall at the end.

The lock clicked, the sound overpowering the rushing water for a second, then abandoning me in the abyss of pure isolation. I thought I'd feel relieved to be alone at last, free from observing eyes and curious ears, but I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was still in the bathroom, listening or even watching me.

White noise concealing my shuffling, I leaned against the wall and slid down until my body met the solid, tiled floor with a thud. Settled and alone at last, the build-up of tears overflowed, dragging the ink from my mascara down my skin to my jaw, where it collected and settled. Being alone with my thoughts, somehow, was worse than being around others. With nothing holding my emotion back or distracting me, the voices in my head had no boundaries.

"What made you think you'd be accepted anyway?" the voices asked.

My grip tightened.

"You know better than to think you deserve anything. Forget any achievement you've ever gotten before!"

My jaw clenched.

"You procrastinate. You don't even work hard. You're just lucky."

My eyes squeezed shut, dumping more inky tears.

"Your awards, grades, and reputation may suggest you're perfect, but you know you're anything from that."

I dipped my head forward and back again, slamming it into the wall. A thump resounded over the sink, and it rang through my skull. The pain—followed by a rush of heat—erupted from the point of impact.

"You know," the voices proceeded, "all of that pain was well overdue. It was about time you learned your lesson."

With every word, my muscles tensed more and more until desperate air burst from my throat in a gasp, and short, shallow breathing followed. Suddenly frantic for a distraction, I scrambled around my backpack.

Then, out of my side pocket fell a black marker.

Without a second thought, I uncapped it and slammed the tip against the palm of my hand, ink seeping into the wrinkles. And in an instant, the words running through my head morphed into just one word: perfect. And—practically in a trance—I wrote out each letter.

"No, you're not," the voices reminded me. And I slashed right through the word. 

But the letters were still too recognizable, so I sliced them over and over again with more ink until my palm became a pool. My head dropped to my knees as my weeping intensified to heaving sobs. When I looked back up, a blank wall stared back. It was completely clean, not tainted with a single mark, and somehow, that seemed out of place. I knew better than anybody else that anything that seemed perfect on the outside had stains deep within that nobody else could see. 

But what if they could, I thought. 

The idea lifted me to my feet, despite my wobbling legs, and carried me unsteadily to the wall. I only had a moment of hesitation before my hands committed and began writing. Dark ink seeped across the pure white surface, clogging every crevice and pit along the way, but soon, clear words were formed, and they became a sentence.

"Why can't I be perfect?" 

And there it was: the ugliness of perfection exposed to the world. Something that I could never show of myself because I knew what people would do with it. It would be treated just like the ink on the wall—gossiped about by some, covered up by others. Opening up wasn't an option, so I would just have to keep my ugliness hidden as always.

After several more minutes of breathing deeply, holding my shaking body, and staring blankly at the wall, the voices calmed down, and I cleaned up the mascara stains on my face enough to walk out. But as soon as I left the bathroom, paranoia kicked in. Could someone have heard me writing? Could I have been seen leaving? 

Although I hadn't heard a single mention of the writing, my worries pestered me the entire day, so by the end of it, I returned to the bathroom. As I entered, I saw two girls chatting by the sinks. 

I heard the girl nearest to me saying, "I've never seen somebody write something like that on the wall." I scurried past as nonchalantly as I could despite my quickening heart rate. 

"I know, right?" the other agreed. "Whoever it is must be really desperate for attention."

"Yeah, seriously. How desperate do you have to get?"

I wanted to scream at them, but I couldn't risk revealing my secret. The stall was already occupied, and as I approached, the girl inside exited. Her eyes seemed to glint once ours met.

In passing, she handed me a sticky note. "You should add something," she whispered.

My brows knotted, but she left before I could stop her. Once I slid into the stall and locked myself in, however, the canvas of the wall came into view. And I understood what she meant.

At least a dozen sticky notes with varying notes were scattered on the wall, not a single one covering the ink. And there were even some comments in pen and pencil written on the wall beside it. Each one was about someone's same experiences or words of comfort and encouragement.

I gasped for breath, unaware that I had been holding it. I scanned the wall over and over again as if I was missing something, but the sight didn't change. Then, I fell back against the wall I had previously cried against. And I smiled. 

I knew that people were still judgmental about it. I knew that they would theorize who was responsible. I knew that the janitors would see it as vandalism, a crime. I knew that they would paint over it, concealing the dark stains. But I also knew that there were people—the people who had written those notes—who understood me and wanted to help.

And that alone led me to the wall as I placed the sticky note at the bottom and wrote with the same marker, "Thank you." I backed away, soaking up the view of the messy art. A single tear cascaded down my cheek, carrying my mascara's ink with it, but I didn't wipe it away.