Ananya had thirty-seven half-finished paintings stacked in her closet. Not one of them had ever felt good enough to show anyone. She'd study each one, find the flaw, and lose the will to continue — better to abandon it than let anyone see it wasn't perfect.

It wasn't just her art. Her college essays went through so many drafts she often missed the deadline entirely. Her apartment stayed half-decorated for two years because she couldn't settle on the "right" way to arrange it. Perfectionism, she was slowly realising, wasn't high standards. It was fear wearing a very convincing disguise.