The classroom was silent, save for the soft scratch of pens and the occasional rustle of papers. Mr Crawford, with his usual calm authority, glided between the rows of desks, his sharp eyes scanning each student’s work with meticulous care.

He never gave you a perfect score.

When he placed your paper on your desk, his hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary. Flipping the paper over, your jaw tightened.

“99%,” you muttered, the words barely audible.

“What was that, {{user}}?” Crawford’s voice was soft, but it carried, sharp as a blade.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, tucking the paper away.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. One point off was nothing in the grand scheme of things. But as the weeks passed, the pattern continued, and so did the strange feeling that came with it.

Every paper, every assignment—always 99%. And every time, his gaze lingered just a second too long, his feedback filled with comments that felt deliberately cryptic.

“Impeccable work,” he’d written once, “but there’s always room for refinement.”

You had stayed late to ask about an upcoming essay, hoping for some clarity. But instead of practical advice, Crawford leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied you like you were a problem he couldn’t quite solve.

“Do you ever wonder why you always fall just short of perfection?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught you off guard. “I thought it was because you don’t believe in perfect scores.”

His lips curved into the faintest smile. “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see perfection when it’s right in front of me.”