Perfection (Scarlett Johansson )

Chapter one

The music throbs through the walls, pulsing like a heartbeat, each bassline rattling my chest.
I cling to the dull, familiar rhythm in my haze, something to hold onto as everything else fades.

I'm swaying on the edge of the crowd, my low-rise jeans stained with beer in some places, my black glitter top clinging to my body.
The red plastic cup in my hand is nearly empty, and whatever had been in it burns going down, but leaves me buzzing.
My nerves hum instead of crackling with their usual tension.

I take a breath, deep, slow, and let it out.
I'm not supposed to be here.
Not at this house, not at this party, not in this outfit. If my parents knew, they'd kill me.

But I am here, and for the first time in a long time, I don't care.

The living room is packed, a mass of bodies moving together like one chaotic, writhing organism.
The energy in the room is electric, feeding off the music, the drinks, the sheer wildness of the night.
Neon lights flicker and spin from a cheap strobe in the corner, casting jagged shadows across faces I barely recognize, though I know most from school.

The air is thick, smelling of sweat and smoke, and the sharp scent of beer lingers in the back of my throat. Laughter cuts through the noise, loud and sloppy, mixing with the shouts from the beer pong game in the kitchen.
Voices blur into one continuous drone, the music drowning out everything, including my thoughts.

For once, my head is quiet.

I take another sip, my lips sticky from the alcohol. My body feels light, unburdened, and when I catch my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, I hardly recognize the girl staring back.

She looks free.

Free from her self-criticism and the compulsion to be perfect, to be in control.

Her makeup is a little too much, eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes like dark shadows. Her hair, usually pulled back tight in a neat bun for ballet, hangs loose and wild over her shoulders.

I blink, trying to focus, but everything's fuzzy, the edges of the room soft and dreamlike, like the world's melting around me.

"Lia! Come on!" someone shouts, Jess, my best friend since forever.
Her voice sounds distant, like it's underwater, but I follow it.

She grabs my hand, pulling me toward the center of the living room. The alcohol's kicked in now, and I don't resist.
I let her drag me into the crowd.
The music shifts, slows, and I can feel the bass in my chest, vibrating through the floor under my feet.

We're not dancers here. Not like we are at the studio, where every movement is perfect, every line sharp.
Here, there are no rules.

I close my eyes and let myself go, arms swaying above my head, my body spinning and twisting to the beat.
Our movements are messy, uncoordinated, nothing like the precision we're used to.

But it doesn't matter.

No one's watching us the way they do when we're on stage, waiting for us to slip, to falter, to fail.

Here, we can be a mess.

And God, it feels good.

The alcohol surges through my veins, loosening everything-my muscles, my bones-until I feel like I'm floating.

There's nothing tight about me anymore, not my limbs, not my mind, not the constant tension that always sits heavy in my chest.
It's gone, washed away in the music and the haze of alcohol.

My heart's racing, but it's not the panic I know-the kind that claws at my throat, makes me want to run. This is different, electric, a rush that makes me feel alive.