Note: Had to get the ink flowing, and this came out. Now granted, it's not the best thing I've ever done, and it's super short, but hopefully it'll be worth your time. Thanks for reading, and review at your leisure. Or flame. I'm not picky.

Disclaimer: FruitsBasket is not mine.

Perfection

Perfection.

One word. Noun. Meaning to never have fault, to never have flaws.

Perfection.

A lie.

Perfection is a blanket of snow, a box of perfectly aligned chalk, a clean council room, a fairy tale. Perfection is an ideal that can only be reached by objects, never men. Perfection is what all strive for, but none achieve.

Perfection is a lie.

And I hate it.

Never falter. Never cry. Never show weakness. Don't miss a step. Be perfect.

Years and years would past as I'd be fed by that lie. It refused to feed the hunger of my soul, the emptiness that was eating away at me day by day. Perfection has no color. Perfection has no place. Perfection has…nothing.

No favorite things, no hobbies, no pastimes: perfection owns nothing.

That's all perfection leaves you with: nothing.

When all you see is an empty void of "nothing," you become frightened. You wonder if there can be ever be "something," a substance, something tangible, something worth achieving.

And when you find it, you realize you're still afraid.

When perfection is abandoned with its world of empty rooms, you're surrounded by a mess--a lovely mess, one full of a chaos that is distinctly human and alive. It is never dead like snow upon the ground, perfectly lifeless and perfectly inhuman.

We are not snow. We are not perfection. We are alive.

I don't know what to say. You're talking to me, and I have no idea what you're saying at all. But I do know one thing: you're smiling.

You changed. I don't know how you did, but you changed.

I can see you, struggling. I can see you, smiling above a sea of deathly perfection. I can see you, and your snow is melting. You're warm now—you're alive, you're human, and you're imperfect.

And I wonder…when will it be my turn? When will I change? When will I transform from a husk of attempted perfection into something beautifully flawed? When will I, too, become human?

When will I smile?

But then, as you say my name, I realize that I already am.

And for the first time, my snow is melting.


PS: If any of you love Yuki x Machi and want it to be made known, check out Celebrian Tinuviel's forum! Thanks for reading.