That night, I couldn't sleep.
Not because I was upset.
But because I couldn't stop thinking about what Eli said.
"You are perfect."
The words played over and over in my mind like a song I didn't know I needed.
Perfect.
Not pretty or cute or brave.
Perfect.
It echoed in places inside me that had never heard kindness before. Places that had been filled with insults and silence, with mirrors I couldn't bear to look into and dresses I never dared to wear.
What did it mean—for someone to look at me, all of me, and say that word like it was the truth?
I wasn't sure. But for the first time in a long, long time, I wanted to believe it.
I turned to face the ceiling, the shadows dancing across my dorm room walls. My fingers traced invisible lines in the air, as if sketching the moment out, trying to hold onto it just a little longer.
The way Eli looked at me—like he meant it.
The way he said it—not like he was trying to flatter me, or calm me down, but like he was just... stating a fact.
"You are perfect, Lily."
That wasn't the kind of thing people like me were told. At least, not seriously. Not without a "but" at the end.
But Eli didn't add a "but." He just stood there, eyes steady and sincere, and said it like it was obvious.
And somehow, some part of me—the part I'd buried deep beneath years of doubt—believed him.
I slept eventually, curled up beneath my blanket with a small, ridiculous smile on my face.
By lunchtime the next day, whispers of the David incident had spread. I heard people talking about it in the hallways, in the dining area, even in my sociology class.
"She knocked him out cold
"No way. I heard she barely touched him and he folded."
"Well, she definitely didn't run. She stood her ground."
"I kinda respect her for it."
My ears burned as I walked past a group of students huddled by the vending machines. I kept my head high, trying not to show how weird it felt to hear my name floating around in other people's conversations. For once, it wasn't followed by laughter or mockery.
Jasmine caught up with me outside the dining hall, her hair in a high puff and sunglasses perched on her head like she was some undercover agent.
"So, you're famous now," she said, sipping something green from a mason jar.
I rolled my eyes. "Don't start."
"No, I'm serious. People are calling you the 'David-slayer.' It's got a whole Game of Thrones vibe to it."
I groaned, but couldn't help smiling. "I didn't slay anyone. I just… defended myself."
"Well, you did it with style. And that comeback? Whew." She fanned herself dramatically. "Poetic justice."
We walked together toward the quad, the fall breeze brushing through the leaves above us. For the first time, I didn't feel like hiding behind Jasmine's bigger personality. I felt… steady. Present.
"I saw Eli earlier," she said casually. "He looked like he was on cloud nine. You two okay?"
I paused for a beat. "Yeah. I think we're good."
"You like him?"
I hesitated. "I don't know. I mean… I like how he makes me feel. Like I don't have to pretend."
Jasmine grinned. "That's rare. Don't overthink it. Just enjoy it."
Later that evening, I went back to my dorm room and pulled out my sketchbook. My fingers hovered above the page for a moment, then moved with purpose.
I sketched a girl in mid-motion—one foot forward, one fist clenched, a blaze in her eyes. Around her, whispers formed like wind, trying to knock her off balance, but she didn't flinch. She stood her ground. Not flawless, not untouched by fear—but fierce. Real.
It was the most me thing I'd ever drawn.
My phone buzzed.
Eli: Hey. Just checking in. You okay?
I smiled. Not the kind that tried to hide. The kind that meant something.
Me: Yeah. Better than okay.
A pause.
Eli: Good. You were incredible yesterday. Seriously.
Me: Thanks. I was scared, you know. But I'm tired of shrinking.
Eli: Don't ever shrink. The world doesn't need a smaller you.
I stared at that message for a long time, letting it settle in my chest like warmth after the rain.
When I finally turned off my light and got into bed, I thought about everything.
Eli's words.
Jasmine's support.
The looks I got in the hallway—curious, maybe even respectful.
And me. The girl who once cried herself to sleep over a stupid party. The girl who thought "perfect" was a word reserved for everyone else.
I wasn't that girl anymore.
And maybe I didn't need to be anyone else to be enough.
Maybe I already was.
A gentle breeze slipped through the cracked window, tugging at the edges of my curtain like it was calling me.
I got up, barefoot, and padded over to the mirror—one I used to avoid like the plague. I stood in front of it, staring at my reflection. My burnt orange dress from the festival hung on the back of my chair, a reminder of the night I finally chose myself.
I didn't flinch this time.
I didn't turn away.
I looked—really looked.
At my full cheeks, my rounded arms, the stretch marks on my thighs, the softness of my stomach. All the parts of me I'd spent years hating.
And slowly, quietly, I smiled.
I grabbed my phone, scrolled through my playlist, and clicked on a song I hadn't listened to in a while—"Who Says" by Selena Gomez.
I didn't plan to sing along.
But then I did.
Softly, at first.
Then louder.
And louder.
I spun around in the middle of the room, letting my arms float up, my voice rising with each word. I danced like no one was watching—not out of sadness or shame this time, but because I felt free.
I laughed, mid-verse, out of breath and heart full.
This was me.
No filters. No pretending. No trying to shrink into someone else's mold.
Just Lily.
The girl who was told she was perfect—and finally started to believe it.
And in that quiet, joyful chaos, I realized something:
Being perfect didn't mean being flawless.
It meant being whole.
Being real.
Being me.
And for the first time, that felt more than enough.