My mother once told me—
"Perfection isn't a goal, Vera. It's a standard."
I believed her.
Of course I did.
I built my life around it.
Every step measured. Every decision calculated. Every mistake—eliminated before it could exist.
Because in my world—
you don't fall.
You don't slip.
You don't hesitate.
You perform.
And I did.
For years.
Until the day I lost something I was never supposed to lose.
Not because I wasn't good enough.
Not because I wasn't trained.
But because—
for the first time—
I hesitated.
And that was all it took.
Now, everything is different.
Not visibly.
Not to them.
But I feel it.
In the way I move.
In the way I think.
In the way I—
pause.
And then—
there's him.
Unpredictable.
Uncalculated.
Uncontrolled.
Everything I'm not.
Everything I shouldn't need.
And yet—
somewhere between discipline and instinct—
between perfection and failure—
I started to fall.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
But enough—
to change everything.