The alarm blared at 5:00 a.m. Zara was already awake before it finished, her brain buzzing. Snoozing? Nope, never. Too much to do, a day packed with stuff and a mental to-do list running before she even got out of bed.
* Make the bed.
* Brush for exactly two minutes.
* Don't look tired.
* Smile.
She sat up, hugging her knees for a sec, then swung her legs over the edge. The cold wood floor shocked her feet a bit, which she found sort of grounding, nice somehow. She liked knowing what came next. If she ran her routine, she could keep it together. And if she did that, maybe she wouldn't have a bad day.
She made her bed just right, smoothing out a wrinkle near the pillow. Her fingers ran along the duvet, like she was getting rid of proof that she slept at all, or that she could be imperfect. Then, like clockwork, she went to the bathroom, splashed water, used her soft toothbrush, and dabbed moisturizer under her dark eyes that no one seemed to notice.
Downstairs, quiet. The house still breathed sleep. Her parents wouldn't be up for another hour. Zara liked having that time all to herself. Time to get it together before anyone asked how she was, a question she really hated.
She poured herself some oats, arranged banana slices in a ring, and drizzled honey in a spiral on top. She didn't need to do that but it helped, pretty things did.
Eating quietly, she glanced at the clock: 5:43 a.m.
Spot on.
---
At 6:30 a.m., Zara faced the mirror, all set for school: white shirt, navy skirt, black tights, and low-heeled shoes that clicked on the floor. Blazer? Check, ironed last night, no lint. Hair? In a tight, perfect bun, not a strand out of place.
She looked perfect.
She didn't feel it.
Her chest felt tight, her stomach felt awful, even though she hadn't eaten anything weird. Her hands were freezing. She flexed them a couple of times. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. She smiled at her double in the mirror. The kind of smile her mom called polished and that her classmates found "creepy."
She held it until it seemed real.
Then she left.
---
At school, it all went by fast.
Zara! Hey! said Jasmine, her friend at her desk, already going on about her party over the weekend. Zara grinned, nodded, and laughed when it seemed appropriate.
Her teacher tapped her desk as she walked by. That essay on environmental ethics... wow. I read it twice.
Zara smiled. Thanks.
But inside she heard a voice: *It wasn't even that great. You missed a point. You came on way too strong. She's just being nice.*
That voice was always there, never yelling or screaming, just talking quietly, like a friend trying to help, except it never let her relax.
---
By afternoon, Zara had answered six questions in Literature, aced her Chemistry quiz, helped a younger student with her project poster, and told the music teacher the right piano chord during rehearsal. She seemed chill, classy, the perfect student.
But her hands shook a bit under the desk.
Her nails dug into her palms when no one could see.
At lunch, Zara sat with her friends and listened to them talk about people they liked, tests, and gossip. Zara joined in when she had to but was mostly counting:
Calories: 450, from lunch.
Minutes: 36 until class.
Mistakes: 3. She talked too fast in English. She tripped over a word. Bit her lip hard when she laughed - she looked weird.
You okay? Someone asked. Maybe Tara, maybe Felicia. Zara didn't know.
I'm fine, she said, with yet another smile.
Not true, but she said it well.
---
School wrapped up at 3:30 p.m. She stayed late for piano.
The music room was silent, dim, piano keys mirroring the light. Playing Chopin again, her fingers did their thing mechanically, landing with purpose. But she messed up a note, her hand shaking.
The sour note echoed. She froze.
Whatever, she said quietly to herself. Try again.
But she couldn't let it go, she missed it.
She closed the piano with a quiet thud. On fire and hated crying, and hated how weak it made her. More than anything, she felt as if she was losing control. That one wrong note felt huge small, but dangerous.
And the voice echoed: *You're falling apart, and no one even had to push you.*
---
Back home, her mom greeted her, nice smile. Good day?
Perfect, Zara told her.
Not exactly a lie. That's how the world saw it. Good grades, right moves, no complaints, no outbursts. Except, at night, when the house went quiet, she curled up under her blanket, wide-eyed and tense.
She couldn't sleep, ever.
Her mind raced, replaying every word, every move.
*Did she look needy when she asked her that? Did Mr. Tade see her hand shake? Did Jasmine spot her fake laugh?*
Underneath all that was the actual scary stuff:
*What if they all see I'm not as perfect as I look?*
---
At 2:07 a.m., exhaustion took over.
And when the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., she got up.
Smiled at herself in t
he mirror.
Did it all over again.
Because the inner chaos wasn't loud enough to stop her.
Not yet.
The next morning was the same as usual. Zara did her usual stuff like it was a dance she knew well – not because she loved doing it, but because it kept her steady. If she didn't do it, she was scared she'd turn into someone she didn't even know – messy and out in the open.
Her dad was downstairs at the table, reading the newspaper with his glasses down on his nose.
Morning, he said without looking up. How's my superstar doing?
Zara poured some tea, then took a breath. Good. I'm going to finish up my science thing today.
Great. That's my girl.
That sentence felt weighty, Warm outside, heavy underneath. She felt like she had to be great for him – not because he told her to, but because she felt like he needed her to be. Zara didn't know when she started thinking that way, but it was stuck in her head so much that trying to forget it felt like she'd be losing a part of herself.
Her mom came in, tying a scarf. Are you positive you're not doing too much, Zara? Maybe skip piano today?
Zara's throat felt tight for a second. She hated when her mom asked that – not because of what she said, but because it felt like she was being offered a way out when she was already fine.
No, I'm okay. I like being busy.
Her mom smiled wearily and nodded. Just be careful you don't wear yourself out, sweetie.
I won't, Zara said, taking a sip of cold tea.
---
At school, things got even faster.
The history teacher said they'd have to do a presentation in the class in two days. You'll be paired up randomly, she said.
Zara jumped a little.
She hated random stuff like that. It messed with her idea of being in charge. She liked picking the people she worked with – people she knew would keep up with her, people with high standards, people who wouldn't slow her down or make her look bad.
The teacher started calling out the names. Zara and… Layla Hassan.
Everyone was quiet for a moment.
Layla was the new kid. She sat in the back, always had headphones in during breaks and gum in her mouth during class, and looked like she was daring anyone to mess with her. Someone had said she got kicked out of her old school for punching someone.
Zara felt a drop of sweat go down her back.
She looked at Layla, who glanced up just long enough to give a lazy salute before looking back down at her notebook.
Zara's stomach flipped. Her brain went into overdrive: *She's not going to care about getting a good grade. She'll l mess it up. You're going to have to do everything. And if you don't get an A, it's going to be your fault for letting her drag you down.*
She smiled. Her brain was screaming.
---
That afternoon, Zara sat by the oak tree behind the music hall, her lunch sitting next to her.
She knew she should eat, but she wasn't very hungry, and the rice smelled too much like onions.
She took out her notepad and started writing down what she wanted to say in the presentation. She hadn't even talked to Layla yet, but she couldn't wait. She needed a plan.
Let me guess, a voice said slowly. You're the type who already did my part of the homework, right?
Zara looked up, surprised.
Layla was standing there with her arms crossed, with one headphone hanging from her ear, and with her Blazer over a black hoodie.
I was just making notes, Zara said carefully.
Layla moved her head a little. You don't talk much, do you?
I talk when I need to.
That sounds hard.
Zara blinked. What does?
Trying to be perfect.
That word – *perfect* – hit her hard. Zara tried to look calm. I'm not perfect.
Layla smirked. Yeah, but you sure are trying to be. I've seen people like you. You've got that fake smile, like you're holding the whole world up to.
Zara's voice shook. You don't know me.
Nope, Layla said, popping her gum. But I know the look. My mom used to look like that before she lost it.
Zara didn't say anything. She tapped her pen against her notebook.
Layla sighed and sat down next to her, leaning back against the tree. Relax, I'll help with the project. I'm not that bad.
Zara didn't say anything, but she slowly stopped tapping her fingers.
---
Later that night, Zara stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. Her makeup wipes were pink from taking off her makeup — mascara, concealer, powder. She wore makeup to hide her tired eyes and a pimple
She leaned forward.
The girl in the mirror looked back – too tired. She didn't even recognize the girl. She looked like a doll that was broken apart and put back together badly.
She turned off the light, went into her room, and got under the covers with her clothes on.
She stared at the ceiling.
She counted. One. Two. Three.
She remembered what Layla had said: *Being perfect sounds hard.*
It was.
But not being felt scarier.
---
The next morning, Zara woke up in a panic.
No alarm.
She sat up fast.
6:34 a.m.
She was late.
She started getting ready without thinking – brushing her teeth, getting dressed, doing her hair, packing her bag. But she was shaking and couldn't breath. She had the rituals. Her day was going to be ruined.
She got out the door, her shirt a little wrinkled and no lip gloss. She didn't even have time to iron. Or think. Or get ready.
She felt very anxious inside.
In the hallway, Jasmine looked at her funny. You okay, Z?
Zara nodded.
But then she dropped her locker key. It clattered to the floor so loud.
She bent down, Picked it up, and stood up.
But her heart was still beating super fast.
Layla showed up, holding two cups of hot cocoa.
Here, she said, handing one to Zara. You looked like you were about to shut down.
Zara took the cup.
How did you—?
You looked anxious. I thought you needed sugar or warmth. Layla shrugged.
Zara looked at her, then at the steam from the tea.
Fo
r the first time that week, the voice in her head stopped.
For a second.
It was going to come back — it always did.
But for now, she felt calm.