Perfectly Aligned

It all began with her mouth. Not her words—those were refined and articulate, each syllable floating with an elegant grace reminiscent of a feather on the breeze, as only Ms. Whitlock could deliver. But it was the movement of her lips when she smiled—a lopsided, insubordinate smirk that never quite conformed. It leaned ever so slightly to the left, much like a crooked painting on a wall.

Harold couldn’t shake the image from his mind.

Initially, it had merely served as a distraction. He’d exchange polite nods with her in the hallway, only to experience a subtle, unsettling ripple, like a crack fracturing his inner calm. Retreating into his janitor’s closet, he would take deep breaths and meticulously arrange his cleaning supplies by size and brand, until the tension eventually faded away.

Then, it invaded his dreams.

Night after night, her face appeared before him—porcelain skin, striking emerald eyes, and that defiant mouth. In his dreams, her imperfect smile seemed to widen, distorting and mocking him relentlessly. He would awaken drenched in sweat, fists tight and teeth grinding.

In a desperate attempt to reclaim order, he began to fix the world around him—polishing doorknobs until they shone like silver coins, rearranging desks into perfect, symmetrical rows, and even trimming the ivy along the front gate so it grew in neat, even lines. Order brought him solace. Yet she remained the embodiment of chaos draped in silk.

Determined, he immersed himself in the study of symmetry, sacred geometry, and divine proportion, poring over Leonardo’s sketches. Nature itself obeyed strict rules: bees constructed flawless hexagons and snowflakes formed with exquisite precision. So why couldn’t her face conform?

Then… the whispering started.

It wasn’t her voice—it was his own. At first, it was nothing more than intrusive thoughts. Soon, the whispers evolved into words, then into complete conversations, as if a second Harold had emerged within his mind, speaking with unsettling clarity.

“You could fix it.”

“She doesn’t notice, but you do.”

“That smile is a scar on the world.”

He began leaving notes, initially filled with gentle warnings and friendly suggestions. He even placed a mirror on her desk with the left corner subtly obscured by ink. She discarded it.

So he escalated.

He started envisioning what she could look like if only there were balance. With precise symmetry. Imagining her left side being pulled downward or her right slightly raised—a careful incision, a delicate stitch. Nothing grotesque, merely a pursuit of righteousness.

One Friday evening, he stayed late, certain she would too—grading essays, enjoying her tea, unaware. In his janitor’s satchel, he had packed wire cutters, gloves, and a roll of gauze—his instruments of realignment.

Room 203 was filled with the scents of lavender and chalk. She didn’t hear him approach, and the door creaked softly as if to avoid disturbing her.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “This won’t take long.”

She looked up, bewildered. Her mouth moved. That very mouth—the defiant curve that refused to adhere to nature’s rules. Before she could scream, a mask was pressed over her face, silencing her protest with a gentle hush. Tears began to fall from her eyes, yet Harold saw only imbalance. He worked with painstaking care, almost tenderly, reshaping her into a vision of beauty.

When he was finished, he held up a mirror.

“Now you match,” he murmured, smiling.

The next morning, they found her. Harold vanished without a trace.

However, deep in the school’s basement, behind the old boiler, a journal was discovered. It overflowed with drawings—faces divided by lines, eyes measured with precision, and mouths annotated with angles and careful notes. Every single one was of her, each marked with the same final scribble underneath:

Perfect. Finally.