‘Being mediocre’ was her biggest fear, the thing that drove her.
It led to so many disappointments. Because not everyone is born to be extraordinary.
You know when is the only time an average person feels extraordinary?
The first three months of a new love.
You can argue about love itself making people extraordinary. Sentimental bullshit it is.
Love is the most natural thing. Everyone who cribs about not having it is either too fat or too ugly. And even they usually find someone. The sheer frequency of human procreation proves that. But the only time one ever feels loved is the first three months, in that first flush.
And here was her comfort zone. The place where she felt accepted, for what she was. Every flaw was muted, she was the cherished one, the loved on, the perfect one.
That was the key to her. In her shallow, obsessed mind, the external glitter of the first few days was so much more important than maybe years of a little more deep-rooted regard.
So, she kept moving on. From criticism, from slight discouragement, from anything more than skin deep. There should have been a way to hold time still. To make sure that respect does not ebb away, that stories don’t repeat, that there is something new to talk about, always.
Too many wants. That was her problem.