NOTHING'S REALLY perfect. Nothing's really imperfect either. And it's a whole lot of confusion, when it comes to perfections and imperfections.

Maryam Khatun came back nearly fifteen minutes later. Sir was growing annoyed. The practice could not be started with her not being around. When she finally returned, she gave him a genuine apologetic glance and voiced a prominent "Sorry". Sir sighed, clearly not being able to make up his mind to give her any good scolding. Meanwhile, I noticed that she had a copy in her hand, which I could barely figure out what, as she tugged it quickly inside her satchel.

I was positioning the guitar when she came back and sat in front of the keyboard. We both learn instruments. Honestly, we need to learn it. It indeed is kind of tough, juggling studies, not-so-social social lives, school and extracurricular activities together, but we manage to do them anyways (we've been managing since we were eleven, so yeah), without affecting any of them much. It's true that sometimes people call us 'unsocial' when we are found to be concentrated in things concerning us. We can bear with it, though.

"What kept you stuck up in there so long?" I whispered.

"Later." She merely mumbled.

I could have smacked her head right there had it not been for the others.

This time, the programme was mainly about 'Peace' - against war and violence, to be specific. It was an essential theme to be performed on. Although, there was no guarantee how many of the participants would have propagated 'peace' in reality. Rather, they could have got themselves involved in or encouraged a fight, any kind of fight.

Aimée Monet would have liked the theme, however. Heck, she would have made no one feel like they were half dead. She was indeed a positive catalyst.

Sir began with a Rabindrasangeet. I strummed and hummed. Maryam moved her fingers on the black and white notes gracefully. We both have gained quite a bit of experience from these five years of training. The students that seemed unenthusiastic a while ago, had got their interests perked up a bit. Like always, the instrumentals worked, like magic.

★

"Will you tell me now?"

The hall was crowded during the recess, as always. The students ran around on the slippery floor (who in the world does that?). Some kids merely leaned against the wall and observed others. They were the people watchers, who were being watched. Maryam hurried down the stairs, so did I. I needed to know what kept her so distracted.

"Wait a damn minute Triparna." Maryam furiously whispered. "Come to the restroom."

She grabbed my wrist and hurled me towards the washrooms. No one was there, luckily.

I folded my arms as I watched Maryam quickly taking out the notebook from her bag. She showed me the front cover and I stared at it in awe. It was adorned with stickers and quotes.

"Why, it looks so cute!" I exclaimed. "You made this?"

A momentary frown could be seen on her face when Maryam straightened her expressions and sighed.

"It's not mine. It's Aimée's."

I blinked and tried to register her words. Aimée. It was hers. The diary was hers. Maybe it was evidence. Maybe it wasn't. But there was hope.

"Are you sure?" I asked, the words coming out in a whisper.

"That it's hers? Yeah, of course. Look at this."

Flipping open the diary, she showed me a quote, written in a typewriter font.

"𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍."

- Me, Aimée

The last part was Aimée's own handwriting - neat and round. Other than that, the quote - it was something not everyone would think and write down. It was Aimée's signature thought. The way she disbelieved in absolute perfection was worthy of remembering.

I stared at the off-white page, neatly designed with light pink, green, blue and yellow colours. The handmade stickers were adorable. I wondered how a simple diary made me realise once again about Aimée's creativity.

★

A year ago

"Ugh!" I growled furiously. I rubbed the eraser over and over in the same place. I was in the canteen, with my sketch book open right in front of me, completing my homework. The recess bell was about to ring in twenty minutes and I was here, silently cursing the hell out of everyone alive.

Why? Because I couldn't draw a proper arm. Yeah, being an art enthusiast since ages, I could not draw an arm.

Well, I was probably exaggerating. I could draw an arm and other things too, decently. But, that day, I just couldn't. Scratch that, the whole week I couldn't. The reason was simple, I didn't feel like drawing. And when I don't feel like doing anything, I don't and can't do it.

I grabbed a fistful of hair and stared at the disproportionate naked human on the paper. We were asked to draw a human figure. It wasn't as if I would have gotten punished for not doing the task, because our teacher wasn't that strict. But, as a person who never usually forgot homeworks, I did not want to lose face. Reputation, something I care a lot about.

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I found a pair of inquisitive orbs.

"Shat your pants or what?" Aimée asked.

"Would have been better that way." I grunted.

Her eyes shifted towards the sketch. However, I could not make out what her thoughts were. Her expression was that blank.

"The dick looks big. How many inches?" She asked jokingly.

I kept my mouth shut.

"I think it's a nine."

She wasn't about to stop. And I wasn't about to say anything until she got straight to the point and asked me what was wrong.

"You've seen a nine inches long penis?" She gasped, mockery laced in her tone.

Still, there was no response from my side. Seeing that I was really feeling down, Aimée huffed.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It looks bad!" I said loudly, my voice laced with anger. I didn't shout. But it seemed like it. Some heads turned towards me and scrutinized the situation. But they couldn't care less. They turned back, leaving a bit surprised Aimée staring right at me.

Realising that I might have gone a bit far I mumbled, "I'm sorry. Couldn't control it."

She brushed off my apology and said, "Who said it looks bad?"

"I did."

"Well, then you're wrong."

I cocked my eyebrow in challenge. "Really? How so, may I ask?"

Aimée sighed and took a seat beside me. She pointed her index finger towards the imperfect arm, "Why do you think it's bad?"

"Because it's bad." I said dryly. She eyed me with a 'I'm serious' expression. "Well, can't you see? The hand's not looking normal at all."

"Why? Because it's swollen?"

"Of course!" I retorted.

"Didn't you ever witness anyone with swollen limbs?"

"Huh?"

"What did the teacher say? Draw a perfect human being?"

"No..." I drawled. "He just told us to draw a human figure."

"Anything else?"

I wondered what she was pointing at, trying to recall what the teacher had told the class last day.

"Oh, uh, he said that we could draw it with, um, something different? Yeah, he said something like that."

"Then? Why are you trying so hard to make a limb perfect?"

My mouth opened to say something. But, I couldn't form any words right away. My eyes fell on my sketch book, particularly on the swollen arm. Perfect. I didn't need to make it perfect. Because it was perfect, already. Probably not in the way I expected it to be. But it was. It was different. Just how I was supposed to draw it.

"Got that?" Aimée whispered warmly. I again met my eyes with hers and nodded slowly, my lips tilting upwards. "Don't let quintessential perfection occupy your mind. Try to see it in a different light, in the light of imperfection."

Later that day, the teacher appreciated my sketch for having a realistic approach - the swelled arm. The one that seemed imperfect to me. But it really wasn't imperfect was it? It was perfect, but in a different way. And as Aimée said, in an imperfect way.

Or maybe it was - imperfect. My insides waged a war. Perfections and imperfections fought against each other, both with equal power, equal determination. I didn't want to decide who won. Because it would have been unfair. The match was a draw. No one was defeated, no one was victorious.

Perfections and imperfections were right and wrong in their own ways. I didn't want to be biased.

★

a/n

I don't know what made me think all these things like this smh...