It was a 10 centimeter by 10 centimeter square piece of silky paper, the kind that you’d see on expensive invitations, cream coloured and smooth. On the card, in fancy cursive type, were words Wendy had long memorised, fingers tracing each letter carefully as murmured after the touches silently, reverently. She had long memorised the information on the invitation, always at the forefront of her mind despite her efforts in keeping it in the back, where she had buried many things.

 

(Mostly it was the curve of Irene’s lips when she smiled, the sparkle in her eyes when she spoke of things that interest her, the attentive way she listened to Wendy despite the fact that Wendy half the time.

 

Most of the things buried there had to do with Irene.)

 

But these days, along with the loss of control over her tear ducts, these things were dislodged, brought to into the open where she had to deal with it, along with the sketch behind the smooth, cream coloured card, where Wendy was half asleep but happy, grinning at the Irene that was absent, relaxed in a way Wendy herself had never seen.

 

It was just a card.

 

But the significance of it was tremendous.

 

She twisted in her bed and held the crumpled card, the abused piece of paper worn and torn from the many ways Wendy had perused it. The lines, the tears, no matter how carefully Wendy tried to flatten it out and fix it, they never went away, never quite the way it was when she found it.

 

(Perhaps it was a foreshadowing of how their relationship was.)

 

She traced the drawing again, her chest aching and wanting, trying to absorb the last vestiges of Irene’s touch (had been doing so for the past week), to understand the emotions behind the simplistic yet heavy words.

 

How long had Irene taken to write those words?

 

Did she take a long time to draw Wendy?

 

Was the memory of Wendy hard to summon after all those (cruel) words?

 

Did thinking of Wendy hurt her?

 

(Like how the thought of Irene hurt Wendy?)

 

Hurt.

 

It seemed like such a shallow word to describe how Irene looked at her when she spat those terrible things at the brunette. It seemed like a cop out, a way to put things in a box and hide it away because there was no way to describe the shattered look in Irene’s eyes, the silent tears that pooled at the corners or the despair that crossed that beautiful face.

 

It was a word that did not encompass the way hope drained away from happiness filled eyes and the downturn of lips that promised a good morning from a goodnight.

 

It has to be a word used in tragedies and never in love songs.

 

Perhaps for good reason.

 

This is how I see you.

 

Wendy closed her eyes, blonde strands falling in front of her eyelids and blocking the light from filtering through, wanting to stop staring at the drawing of herself that she had never seen before.

 

But the sketch had already been burned into her memory, soft, pliant, happy and it itched underneath Wendy’s skin to know that the girl Irene saw was vastly different from the girl Wendy was.

 

Irene saw her as perfect.

 

But Wendy knew, from the time she started drowning in her parents’ expectations and the burden of being perfect in the world’s eyes, she was not.

 

***

 

If she was braver, more accepting of that pure, untouched love for Irene in her heart, maybe she would be able to admit that there were different kinds of perfect, even if they disappointed her parents.

 

But she wasn’t.

 

Wendy was scared of the eyes her parents gave her, would give her if she displayed an image that was less than the perfect daughter that she wanted.

 

And she can’t live with herself if she chose Irene and Irene found out just how much of a fraud she was.

 

An imperfection.

 

So she hid.

 

She hid and avoided and played dumb to all these, hanging on to the one thing that had kept her going all these years.

 

***

 

Right up till the evening of the exhibition, Wendy was still undecided on what she was going to do.

 

On one hand, with the information she had memorised in her mind and underneath the tips of her fingers, wanted desperately to go and see Irene, apologise for the awful things she said and maybe, just maybe, be brave enough to admit her feelings.

 

On the other hand, she felt like hiding in her room until the love in her heart turned to ashes, until the cracks in her armour could be filled with makeup and a smile that fooled everyone. She felt like shying away until she was Wendy again, the Wendy that never disappointed her parents, the perfect music therapy student who had the rest of the student body at the palm of her hands.  

 

She was damned either ways because both options might cause her to lose Irene, even when the girl wasn’t even hers to lose to begin with. Fleeting smiles and casual glances with deep seated aches in the middle of her chest didn’t count, not when there were dreams of a fairytale ending and a smile that could outshine the sun’s rays in a heartbeat.

 

Not when she had a glimpse of her life with Irene in it.

 

(There were also nightmares of tears and snarls, where her words would be thrown back in her face, nightmares of a reality where she drowned in self-doubt and unspeakable guilt and the eyes that held Wendy captive turning cold.)

 

It was that dream she had the morning where she had felt the most open that spurred her into action, the promise of more mornings of never hiding and the release of a burden that she had taken onto herself when her parents demanded the image of perfection swaying the scales from being Wendy to being the Wendy Irene saw her as.

 

Perhaps it was part desperation, an attempt to dig her way out of this hellish limbo she had gotten herself in.

 

(Even if it ended badly, even if Irene looked at her with eyes colder than ice and words that would shatter the shard of pure, untouched love within her heart, it would end.

 

It would end and she would have to accept that her role in Irene’s life and Irene’s role in hers was over.)

 

She sighed to herself, running her hand through her thoroughly messy hair.

 

“.”

 

Moving towards her closet, Wendy started pulling out clothes, though fashion was the last thing on her mind. But now that her mind was made up to go, to have a conclusion to whatever stalemate they had going on between them, she wanted Irene to notice her.

 

More than anything, she wanted Irene to look at her and listen.

 

That even if Wendy can’t be anything less than the image of perfect, she never meant any of the things she had said.

 

That she never wanted Irene to shatter like that.

 

(So even if Irene listened and turned away from her, she would do anything to make sure Irene would never hurt again like that.

 

And when that thought slid into place within the deep vestiges of her mind, it settled the churning in her chest somewhat.)

 

It was a plan.

 

Or the very shaky start of one.

 

*

 

Wendy grabbed the disposable wet tissue from its packet and wiped away the ruined eyeliner that she had been attempting to get right for the past two minutes, her shaky fingers dropping the pencil onto the dressing table. The item landed with a clatter, Wendy exhaling an even shakier breath as she tossed the used tissue into the bin, taking in a breath before reaching out to pick up the eyeliner, her third attempt for the night. The brush flowed easily, following the shape of her eyelid and ended with a flick, Wendy keeping her eye shut for a period of time, slowly counting out the seconds in hopes that this would be third time lucky.

 

“Going on a date tonight?”

 

Wendy’s eyes flew open at the sudden intrusion of privacy, the barely dried eyeliner sticking to the top of her eyelids as she whipped around to scream at the intruder. Shocked at the expression on her face, Seulgi raised her hands up in surrender, the black haired girl making her way slowly into Wendy’s room, eyes roaming Wendy’s face. The blonde huffed and turned back around, snatching yet another wet tissue to clean her eye.

 

“Have you ever heard of knocking?”

 

Seulgi made a noise and a thump was heard, Wendy looking at Seulgi sprawled out on her bed through the mirror.

 

“You’ve never minded before. What’s the big fuss now?”

 

Wendy’s words caught in and a whine escaped her lips instead, the blonde choosing to focus on her makeup rather than Seulgi’s sudden intuition. But unlike the third try, her hands shook too much for the brush to make a neat line on her eyelid, the slight tremors causing the line to have bumps in them. Huffing loudly, Wendy threw the pencil down and grabbed another tissue, brushing at her eye roughly.

 

“You’re going to take your eye out, Wendy.”

 

Seulgi took the wet tissue from her and gently wiped away the traces of eyeliner, Wendy lowered her eyes and murmuring softly.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Seulgi hummed and picked up the eyeliner, her steady hands completing the mask Wendy was attempting to paint on earlier. In the mirror, the previously pale, tired pallor of her face was hidden beneath the base makeup, the puffiness of her eyes made sharp by Seulgi’s impeccable skills . Her lips, chapped and bruised from the constant chewing, were curled in a slight seductive smirk, the red of her lip gloss hiding the white of her skin.

 

She looked like she usually does, calm, put together and ready to challenge the world.

 

Even though she was crumbling inside.

 

“So do you want to share what exactly has gotten you in such a slump?”

 

Inner conflict screeched to a halt and Wendy had to stop for a moment to remember to plaster on a smile before looking up into Seulgi’s eyes, trying desperately to pull together the persona she had always shown to the equally bright girl. Displaying her teeth in a grin that felt more like a grimace, Wendy shrugged, not quite managing to meet Seulgi’s gaze.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Seulgi’s thin fingers caught her chin and pulled her face up, brown eyes serious, deep in a way that has always been hidden behind curved slits.

 

“You know what I mean. I might be stupid but I’m not blind. You’ve been out of sorts the past week and I’ve never seen you so down. What’s going on?”

 

Wendy opened to argue but the determined look on Seulgi’s face had her lips sealing together tightly, the blonde shaking her head while pulling her face away from Seulgi’s hold.

 

(Seulgi always had been smarter than people gave her credit for.)

 

Huffing, Seulgi sat on the floor and rested her elbows on Wendy’s knees, her eyes peering up at Wendy.

 

“Wen. Whatever it is you think you can’t tell me, you can. I’m your best friend.”

 

And there it was, that fear that had plagued her and battled her ever since she woke up blissful in Irene’s bed and ended up guilty and angry exiting the brunette’s room. It gripped at her heart, reminding her of the inevitable disappointment of her parents at her imperfection and the resulting disgust that would come from her friends. Her chest ached and burned, the back of her eyelids feeling like knives as the imprint of the sketch swirled in her vision together with tears that felt like acid in her eyes.

 

“Wendy.”

 

Seulgi sounded panicked now, thumbs brushing just by her concealed eyebags, her best friend rising to her knees to comfort the blonde.

 

“Wendy, please don’t cry. It’s okay if you can’t tell me. Just don’t cry, okay?”

 

But it only made the tears fall faster, the fact that Seulgi was being patient and kind with her because it just reminded her of the distance that Irene had put between them and the words that had caused them in the first place.

 

It reminded her of an epitaph that was more like a goodbye than a love note.

 

(A stark reminder that Irene, beautiful, earnest, heartbroken Irene, had not once blamed Wendy for words that shattered hope and love. )

 

This is how I see you. I hope one day, hopefully in the near future, you’d be able to see yourself like this. Because you’re perfect the way you are.

 

She heaved in a deep breath, sobs peppering her words and gripped at Seulgi’s wrists.

 

“I-I messed up, Seul, I messed up so badly and I - I don’t - I can’t fix it- I can’t be anything less - I have to be perfect, Seul but I messed up-”

 

She clung to Seulgi like a lifeline, a person from her perfect (imperfect) life that only saw the Wendy she wanted them to see, craving for the contact like a lost child. Seulgi, to her credit, shifted her hands to hold Wendy delicately, one of her hands reaching around to pat Wendy’s back.

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Just cry it out.”

 

Seulgi continued to hold her and whisper soft words of comfort, Wendy’s sobs gradually quieting down. With soft touches, Seulgi used a tissue to wipe away the ruined makeup, tilted up in a sad smile that matched the look in her eyes.

 

“It’s going to be alright.”

 

Wendy shook her head, watching as Seulgi pulled away a stained tissue.

 

(Perfectly white.

 

And stained messily.)

 

“No, it’s not. I messed up really bad, Seul. I hurt he- someone really badly and I don’t know how to fix it.”

 

Seulgi patted her on the cheek, her words kind, her eyes melancholy.

 

“Then you try anyways. You’ll never know until you try.”

 

Wendy gave Seulgi a look, partly desperate, mostly insecure.

 

“I don’t know if I can.”

 

Seulgi sighed and rubbed at Wendy’s cheek, her head tilting to one side.

 

“Yes, you can. What’s stopping you?”

 

(Many things.

 

So many things.

 

But mostly just the look of disappointment on her parents’ face and Irene’s indifference.)

 

She whispered softly, not exactly the truth but the next best thing.

 

“What...what if that makes me not perfect?”

 

To her surprise, Seulgi snorted loudly, the sympathetic look on her face giving way to one of derision.

 

“Perfection?”

 

Wendy lowered her gaze, the dark feeling in her heart rising yet again, whispers of words that sounded so much like her parents at the edges of her mind.

 

“Yeah. I can’t- It’s not-”

 

She didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t reveal the deepest, darkest part of her life to Seulgi.

 

“What’s perfection if you can’t have love, Wen?”

 

Her head snapped up, eyes roaming Seulgi’s face for a sign that she had heard wrongly.

 

The slight smile on Seulgi’s lips, the glittering in the other girl’s eyes told her she didn’t.

 

Seulgi spoke again, explaining her vague words earlier.

 

“I’ve seen you staring at her. For a while now. That brunette from the courtyard with her sketchbook and purple bag.”

 

Wendy rushed to explain herself, the fear overflowing into full blown panic at the thought of Seulgi even knowing about her imperfection.

 

(No, no, no, if Seulgi -

 

If Seulgi knew, just how many others-)

 

Seulgi shushed her with a tap on her cheek, the black haired girl pursing her lips slightly.

 

“And you don’t know. You don’t know how you stare at her.”

 

Wendy croaked shakily, her fingers limp in Seulgi’s hold.

 

“How do I-”

 

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