𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 │ 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

THE ROOM WAS QUIET EXCEPT for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of someone shifting in their seat. Emberly sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on her. It was strange how quickly this place, full of strangers, had become somewhere she could let her guard down. But here, she wasn't the girl with the "perfect" life everyone envied. Here, she was just Emberly—a girl trying to piece herself back together.

"That's the thing about perfection," she began, her voice steady but soft, drawing the attention of the group. "Everyone has their own idea of it. And I never used to try to be perfect, but at some point, I guess I did. I wanted to be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, or the perfect girlfriend. I thought if I could just be those things, everything else would fall into place."

It had been three weeks since Emberly checked herself into rehab—25 days of hard truths and painful realizations. She wouldn't pretend it had been easy; some days, she wanted to walk out and never look back. But she knew staying was the best thing she could've done for herself. Her mental health had been spiraling, and for once, she had chosen to face it head-on instead of burying it.

Now, with only a few days left before her release, she was beginning to feel like she could breathe again. The program wasn't long—she hadn't been addicted to drugs or alcohol in the traditional sense, but her substance abuse and her depression were red flags that needed addressing. Her therapist believed she was ready to leave soon, and for the first time in a long time, Emberly believed it too.

"Why the need to be perfect?" Marissa, the girl sitting to her left, asked, her tone curious but gentle.

Emberly glanced at her, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. "Because everyone assumed I was," she admitted. "And I convinced myself it was true. I thought that's who I needed to be. But the thing about perfection is, it's exhausting. I was trying to help everyone in my life, trying to hold everything together, and I just ignored my own problems. The worst part about chasing perfection is when you realize you'll never get there. You disappoint yourself. And you can't escape yourself. That's when I wanted to give up—on everything. On myself."

Marissa tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. "Fear of letting people down?"

"Fear of not being good enough for them," Emberly corrected softly, her words carrying a weight that settled over the group.

"Okay. What else?" Marissa pressed gently.

Emberly frowned, confused. "What do you mean, 'what else?'"

"Look, that's the beauty of this group," Marissa explained. "No doctors. No judgment. It's just us. Share something you've never shared before. It helps to get it out, especially the things that weigh you down the most."

Emberly hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked around the room, meeting the eyes of people she barely knew but somehow trusted more than anyone else at the moment. Her voice shook slightly as she began.

"I don't think the people in my life love me enough to stay," she admitted. "I'm scared I'll never be good enough for them. My dad died from an overdose, and I keep wondering—was it an accident? Or did he just give up? Did he give up on himself, on me, on my family? Was I not worth sticking around for? And now, here I am, with friends and family who love me, and I was ready to leave them all behind. What kind of person does that make me?"

Tears welled in her eyes, but she pressed on. "I just don't think I deserve all the good things in my life. And I'm terrified I'll ruin them."

The room was silent as Emberly finished speaking, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. She felt exposed, vulnerable. Sharing this with the group felt like peeling back layers she didn't even realize she had. She lowered her gaze, suddenly shy, and played with the edge of her sleeve again.