Author's Note: Poor Mr. and Mrs. Perfect! Together they cannot be.

I'm sorry, that's just one of my favourite lines of this song, besides "Thank fuck you didn't harm the spark in me, I know it's all I've got."

Day Two-Hundred: Perfect-oh by Marina and the Diamonds

I dropped onto the bed. I hadn't slept in this bed for over a year and a half.

After a moment of reminiscing of the memories made in this bed, I pulled out a cigarette. I knew you weren't supposed to smoke in bed. It didn't matter to me.

Propping myself up on my elbow, I examined the room. Through little smoke wisps, I examined the room. This bedroom hadn't been inhabited for so long that some of the furniture had dust on it. I sighed before flopping back down onto the bed.

I heard the door open and a woman giggling, but I didn't even bother to look over. I was too emotional, thinking of just how empty this room had been in my absence. I knew this apartment hadn't been empty in my absence.

"Toby!"

Still, I didn't get up or even look over to think about who it was. Probably Toby's new little girlfriend. They were sleeping together, probably, and I could only think of how many nights she most likely had spent here.

How did things get this awful? Things were wrong from the start.

I'm a singer. It was really just a hobby as I continued school, to be honest, but apparently, a band in Europe had heard my singing one night and they liked it. It was some band popular with the indie crowd that I had never heard of before. I never really considered myself "indie", but whatever worked for them. They had invited me to tour with them around Europe. It was a year-long tour. They had liked my singing so much that they wanted to write songs with me. Twelve months turned into eighteen months. Eighteen months is a long time to be away from your spouse.

Oh, did I forget to mention? Toby is my husband. We'd been married for four years. At first, the phone calls were constant and just about every day, but soon, they became fewer and far between. Before I knew it, I started resenting him for it, and it came out in my songwriting. I couldn't say any of these things to him, so I wrote them and sang them instead.

I met him about seven years ago in New York. He was a writer. I was a singer going through school. He was a damn good writer. He wrote for a paper, but he could've been the next Hawthorne or Hemingway. He said I was a damn good singer when he first saw me. I never believed him, but it felt nice to hear someone speak so highly of me; I had a bit of a problem with my perfectionism. At first, I thought he was, too, and it made me quite excited, since I thought we could help each other, but it turns out…he was not.

When I told him about me leaving to go to Europe, he seemed understanding, maybe even…happy for me. It was hard to say goodbye to him.

"Bye!"

The sound of a door slam pulled me out of my reverie. Right. The door was sticky and sometimes didn't close easily, especially when it was rainy like today.

I finally willed myself to get up and walk into the living room. I still had the lit cigarette in my hands.

When I walked into the room, Toby looked up at me, startled. "When did you get back?"

I just took another drag of the cigarette. "My plane came in three hours ago," I responded as small tendrils of cigarette smoke escaped my mouth and the cigarette.

He got up to face me for the first time in eighteen months. He pulled the cigarette out of my hand. "When did you pick this up?"

I pulled it back for him before putting it back in my mouth. "Barcelona, thirteen months ago." Really, in Barcelona, I had started by smoking cigars, but found cigarettes to be easier. Ever since, I smoked ten cigarettes a day, including the one I had after waking up and the one just prior to brushing my teeth and going to sleep.

"It's bad for you and you shouldn't do it," he informed me.

"Thanks, Daddy, I'll keep that in mind," I responded before putting the cigarette back between my teeth. He looked at it—or maybe me; it was hard to tell—in disgust and scorn.

We stayed in silence for at least three to five minutes.

"Why are you staring at me?" I asked.

"I'm trying to morph the same girl from the pictures all around the apartment with the girl in front of me," he murmured as he continued to stare.

"Why? Do you even care? It's not like you were waiting for me or anything," I spat.

He rolled his eyes. "What's with all the questions? And do you realize that in the length of time we were married, I spent more time here alone than with you?"

I had thought about it, if you were curious. I thought about it a lot. Sometimes, it made me cry. In fact, hearing him say it with such strain in his voice made my throat tight, like I was about to cry.

"I'm glad you're glad to see me back," I responded dryly before pushing past him and back into the bedroom. I didn't know what reaction I was expecting initially, but I was anticipating that it would be better than this. It was supposed to be a good surprise.

I just wanted it to be perfect.

My friends all used to say we were like Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. It turns out Mr. and Mrs. Perfect weren't so perfect together. That was what my subconscious told me, tauntingly. If there was one thing I really hated, it was imperfections. I always had. Maybe that was the thing I liked most about us; we were perfect. He dealt with my perfectionism. He dealt with it by keeping me in a little glass bubble; he was always protecting me. I was like a little glass angel to him—one of those angels the luxury stores and jewelers displayed in their windows around holiday time. But now I realize that I'm not a little glass trinket. He can't keep me. I can't stay in the dark forever and go unscathed. He just scathed me, anyway.

I just really wish it hadn't happened as it did. It made me feel bad to think of all the hell I put him through…and similarly, the hell he was putting me through.

It was better this way, I decided. He was better off without me. He only loved me because I was all he ever had. It was the same reason I loved him.

sarahschneider2012: Oh, I'm so glad that it was relatable to you. I used to dance but I didn't like it. About six months ago, I had a newfound appreciation for dance, so I've been doing a lot of researching and watching a lot of dance videos on youtube with little dancers and ballerinas and stuff like that. But I'm really glad that you could relate to it.

Tomorrow's one-shot shall be Poison by Gin Wigmore and I now have less than 30 one-shots. I don't know if I'm excited or sad about that (or both?). But anyway, thank you guys so, so, SO much for reading! -Kayson