I sometimes catch myself looking at someone so hard, that their reflection begins to mirror mine—imperfection. Something that makes us… us—human, flaws, the quiet things that shape who we are. Something that’s looked upon in society— normal, but not the societal norm. We mock one another for getting surgery, yet pass judgment on flaws locked behind closed doors, the ones someone would fix if they could. We all have imperfections— some deemed worse than others, untamed, even though they’re all the same. I stare not out of judgment, but out of familiarity.