Everything is so quiet, like under the water. I am screaming but sound doesn’t coming out. Ballerina in the music box on the floor is always so perfect. Look at her, she is never tired and twirls perfectly, every single time! But, if a doll in the box actually has my own figure and face, whose burden of perfection am I carrying? “Imposter” on the wrist reminds that this pain is SO real. Clock on the wall says that it’s almost midnight. Butterfly, as a symbol of metamorphosis, gives a hope. Will I ever be enough?