Sometimes that has to do with perfect

Written by Kingson Das

(Based on a concept by a @Borrdcat)

Part One — The Weight of Perfection

Aarohi Sharma learned the meaning of responsibility before she learned how to rest.

As the eldest, she was never just a daughter — she was an example. Every expectation rested on her shoulders like an invisible crown, heavy and unquestioned. At family gatherings, her name was spoken with pride. At home, it was spoken with instruction.

“Be careful, Aarohi.”

“Be better.”

“Don’t disappoint us.”

Perfection wasn’t a choice. It was her course.

So she followed it without complaint.

She studied when others slept. She smiled when she was tired. She ignored distractions the way she had been taught — feelings included. Love, she was told, was a blockage. Something that slowed people down. Something irresponsible.

And for a long time, she believed that.

Until Kabir Mehta.

He didn’t arrive loudly. He didn’t force his way into her life. He simply noticed her — the girl who always had things under control, the one everyone admired but no one truly knew. He asked questions no one had asked before. He tested limits she didn’t know she was allowed to have.

And without realizing it, Aarohi fell.

Harder than she ever meant to.

Being with Kabir felt like breathing differently — like discovering air she hadn’t known existed. For the first time, she wasn’t perfect. She was just… human. Laughing, dreaming, imagining a future that wasn’t planned by someone else.

When she told her family, the air changed.

They didn’t shout. They didn’t argue loudly. Rajesh Sharma didn’t raise his voice, and Sunita Sharma didn’t cry. They were calmer than that — disappointment wrapped in concern, control masked as care.

“Relationships are distractions,” her father said.

“You’ll lose focus,” her mother added.

“You know better, Aarohi.”

She was angry. Hurt. Confused.

That night, she cried into Kabir’s shoulder, words breaking between sobs. She told him everything — the pressure, the expectations, the fear of becoming nothing if she failed.

He listened. Then he said something that felt reassuring at the time.

“Keep it a secret,” Kabir told her softly.

“Just until you become big. Powerful. Then no one can stop us.”

So she agreed.

And once again, Aarohi chose perfection.

She worked harder than ever — fueled by family pride and the promise of love waiting quietly in the background. Days blurred into nights. Sacrifices stacked silently. And eventually, it worked.

She made it.

An award. Recognition. Proof that every ounce of effort had meant something.

But when she went to share the news with the person she thought would understand the most, Kabir’s reaction wasn’t what she expected.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t celebrate.

He ended it.

No explanation that made sense. Just a sentence that hollowed her out.

“I found someone else.”

Aarohi didn’t argue. She didn’t beg. She simply broke — quietly, the way she’d been trained to.

Weeks later, when she returned home, she expected rest.

Instead, she found chaos.

Her younger sister, Ananya Sharma, was getting married.

The house was alive with preparation, excitement, voices speaking over one another. When Aarohi tried to speak — to ask questions, to remind them of everything they once told her — she was gently silenced.

“The groom’s family is coming tomorrow,” her parents said.

“Don’t ruin this.”

So Aarohi wore her mask again.

And when the groom arrived, the past came with him.

(To be continued…)

Sometimes that has to do with perfect

Written by Kingson Das

(Based on a concept by a @Borrdcat)

Part Two — The Wedding

The next morning arrived too fast.

Aarohi stood in the doorway of her room, watching the house move without her. Wedding planners walked in and out. Relatives laughed too loudly. Someone played music she didn’t recognize. It felt strange — like she had returned to a place that no longer belonged to her.

She found her mother in the kitchen.

“Ma,” Aarohi said carefully, “when were you going to tell me?”

Sunita Sharma didn’t stop what she was doing. “We just did.”

Aarohi swallowed. “You always said relationships were distractions. Marriage was something to wait for. Then why—”

“This is different,” her mother said, finally turning around.

“This is your sister.”

Aarohi nodded slowly. She had learned that sentence well.

This is different.

It always was — when it wasn’t about her.

By evening, the groom’s family arrived.

Aarohi stayed upstairs until she was called down. She adjusted her dupatta, fixed the calm expression on her face, and stepped into the living room wearing perfection like armor.

And then she saw him.

Kabir Mehta.

The room tilted.

He stood near her sister, Ananya, smiling easily — the same smile that once belonged to Aarohi’s late-night conversations and whispered promises. His hand brushed Ananya’s, gentle and familiar.

Her breath caught.

Ananya noticed her first. “Didi!” she said brightly. “You’re finally here.”

Kabir turned.

For a moment, his face froze.

Just a second. Just long enough for Aarohi to know she wasn’t imagining things.

Then he smiled — polite, controlled, distant.

“Aarohi,” he said, like her name meant nothing at all.

The rest of the evening passed in fragments. Voices echoed without meaning. Plates clinked. Someone praised her achievements. Someone else spoke about the wedding dates.

Aarohi smiled through all of it.

Later that night, when the house finally quieted, she found him alone on the balcony.

Kabir didn’t turn when she approached. “I knew you’d come,” he said.

“Why?” Aarohi asked. Her voice didn’t shake. That surprised her.

He sighed, like she was an inconvenience. “I was curious how long it would take you.”

She stared at him. “How could you do this?”

Kabir finally looked at her — not guilty, not ashamed. Just honest in the worst way.

“I was bored,” he said.

“Everyone talked about you — the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect girl. I wanted to see what would happen if I broke that mask.”

Aarohi felt something inside her turn cold.

“And Ananya?” she asked.

“I love her,” he said simply. “It’s real with her.”

The words landed like poison.

Aarohi stepped back. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She walked away.

She told her parents everything.

Rajesh Sharma listened in silence. Sunita Sharma held her hands tightly. When she finished, the room felt unbearably small.

Finally, her father spoke.

“She is your sister,” he said.

“If she wants something, you give it to her.”

Her mother nodded. “They’re in love. It’s okay.”

Aarohi stared at them, waiting for more.

Nothing came.

That night, she understood something clearly for the first time.

Perfection had never protected her.

It had only made her invisible.

(To be continued in Part Three — The Mask Cracks)

Sometimes that has to do with Perfect

Written by Kingson Das

(Based on a concept by a @Borrdcat)

Part Three — The Mask Cracks

The days that followed moved like a blur Aarohi couldn’t control.

The house filled with laughter again — brighter this time, louder. Relatives arrived with sweets and blessings. Neighbors whispered with admiration. Everywhere she went, she heard the same words.

“So proud of your sister.”

“What a perfect match.”

“Your family must be so happy.”

Aarohi nodded. Smiled. Agreed.

No one noticed how carefully she avoided mirrors. No one noticed how her hands trembled when she was alone. No one asked how she was sleeping — or if she was sleeping at all.

She became efficient at disappearing while standing right in front of everyone.

The engagement was announced publicly. Photos were taken. Kabir stood beside Ananya, his arm protective, his expression sincere. He played the role well.

Too well.

Aarohi watched from the side, clapping when required. Her parents stood proudly, greeting guests, accepting congratulations. They looked fulfilled — like everything had finally fallen into place.

And maybe it had.

Just not for her.

In the middle of all the celebration, an email arrived.

Her coronation ceremony.

The award she had worked toward for years. The recognition that was supposed to make everything worth it.

She read the message twice. Then a third time.

Nothing stirred inside her.

No excitement. No relief. No joy.

Only emptiness.

When she told her family, the reaction was instant — hugs, praise, tears of pride.

“This is why we pushed you,” her father said, gripping her shoulders.

“We always knew you’d make us proud.”

Her mother kissed her forehead. “See? Everything happens for a reason.”

Aarohi smiled.

The mask fit perfectly.

But at night, when the house slept, she sat on her bed staring at the wall, wondering when exactly she had stopped feeling like a person and started feeling like proof.

The ceremony day arrived dressed in light and celebration.

People with status and influence filled the hall. Cameras flashed. Names were announced. Applause echoed endlessly. Aarohi stood backstage while her mother adjusted her outfit, praising her beauty, her grace, her strength.

“You’re glowing,” Sunita said proudly.

Aarohi looked into the mirror.

The girl staring back at her was flawless.

And exhausted.

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she didn’t see the achiever everyone admired. She saw the child who learned to carry burdens silently. The girl who was loved for what she gave, not who she was.

Her name was called.

The crowd erupted.

With every step forward, the applause grew louder. She could see her father smiling — proud, satisfied. The same smile she had spent her entire life chasing.

She reached the stage.

The award was placed in front of her — a simple piece of paper, framed and glowing under the lights.

Years of effort.

Years of sacrifice.

Everything she was told to become.

She stared at it.

And felt nothing.

Her hands shook as she picked it up.

The silence crept in slowly as people realized something was wrong.

Aarohi stepped away from the podium.

Then she did the unthinkable.

(To be concluded in Part Four — Choosing Herself)