Completeness. The satisfying feeling of fullness that ironically seeks further wholeness as if it was never satisfied at all. Complete sets are perfect sets. Missing pieces are a grave sin. You either complete a set or you never start one at all. And then when you're finished with one, you find yourself obsessed with the next. Now, look here. Exhibit A: A complete collection of The Hunger Games series, from each edition including the limited ones. Exhibit B: A photocard collection of that one K-pop band, complete with each member since debut and yes, including limited lucky draws and fansigns. Exhibit C: The full set of the Lego Botanical collection that cost a ridiculously exorbitant amount of money, perching guilelessly on top of a display shelf. Exhibit D: Fully maxed-out achievements in-game at the cost of sleepless nights. Was it worth it? Perhaps not, but Jane believes it is worth everything — money, time, or effort — to complete sets.

Jane is a regular schoolgirl with regular friends in a regular school with regular parents in a regular house of regular income. As such, her monetary savings are in an increasing deficit from spending money to complete sets. Her monthly allowance given by Mother is simply insufficient but she finds that she has some semblance of shame in asking for a bonus. So instead, she skips meals, gets a marginally well-paying part-time job that has marginally horrible working hours, and cuts back on hanging out with friends over the mid-year break to work.

"Why aren't you hanging out with us lately? Just tell your boss you can't make it!" laments Tom, slurping noisily into his $16.90 ramen. Claire pouts contemplatively, nodding in agreement. "It's not like you really need the money anyways."

Jane opens her mouth, the whisper of a reason dying on the tip of her tongue. Closes it. How to explain her increasingly crippling predicament of being a collector? How could they understand? She stares into her $15 bowl of soup, watching the gooey, chrome yolk in the egg seep out of the middle, mixing with the clear broth. She needs answers but all she can think about is how an hour's worth of her pay was blasted on a meal that tastes like the stockpiles of instant noodles in her kitchen cabinet and could have been used instead to purchase the latest Pentel Energel limited edition release to add to her collection of beautiful pretty pens. The soup in her stomach suddenly feels heavy, tasting sour on her tongue and she imagines, as much as she feels, the noodles expanding and floating around in the pit of her stomach, unfulfilling. A bubbly growl emanates from her belly, simultaneously hungry and pukey-feeling. Wasted opportunities; this was all Tom's fault for suggesting they eat here when she tried to point out how dumb the prices were for shitty noodles while Claire just went along with whatever because she was rich anyway— 

Jane blinks. Releases a non-committal hum, offering no further elaboration. Tom and Claire exchange glances, shrugging. Fifteen minutes later, Jane makes up an excuse about having an assignment to finish by that night (they'll only allow her to go for academic reasons), leaves early, and goes to work. She skips dinner and breakfast then comes home to make herself instant noodles for lunch. Night shifts are a pain but alas, the prospect of being able to purchase the extension pack of the new board game at home outweighs anything.

A month after, on the fifth of July, Jane springs up from bed, scrambles for her phone and immediately opens her banking app. A green text under "recent transactions" shows "+2, 240". Squealing in delight, she places a bulk order for the newly released Lego Minifigure series and gets ready for school.

Between the gruelling hours of work and the ungodly amount of time spent achieving 100% completion in Cyberpunk, Jane had completely disregarded revision for the mid-years. She can only remember vague snippets of her sitting down and scratching away at the paper. The memory feels hazy, but the glaring red 40% on her Chemistry paper is anything but, burning itself into her retinas. Startlingly, a familiar hand reaches from behind her shoulder, grabbing at her paper and then Jane's mind catches up to the motion and she thinks no no don't look dont'look—

"The hell, I thought you were mugging away over the June break? Or did you just... not wanna hang out?"

Jane slowly looks up to meet Claire's eyes. The apology lodges stuck in her throat. There was no good reason. She cannot find the words to excuse her own obsession when the only thing she associates with it is pleasure and shame. Shame for the peculiarity of it all — she did not understand it herself, this compulsion. Shame eats away at her voice and as such she feels revulsion at herself. Yet, she cannot give up the need for wholeness. The unbroken fullness of sets is a pure thing. A pure thing that Claire wants to stop her from achieving, rip away from her. The derision in her mind rears its ugly head onto the girl in front of her instead. Claire had no right to question why or what she was doing when ‘hanging out' meant precious money being wasted. Jane's collections are ultimate. That felt right. Claire is wrong.

The following events happen in a blur of scathign comments, surprised remarks, and antagonistic grappling of limbs. They are separated by John who appears wounded by Jane's sharp tongue. Jane does not care. She packs her bag and leaves. Two glassy eyes bore into her, fragile as she feels.

Let us now look at Exhibit E: a shelf broken, caved in from the middle, wood splintered. Broken under the weight of the objects it carried. Plastic bricks of flower petals litter the floor of Jane's house. Book spines bent. Jane shudders, collecting the pieces and straightening them out. The small voice in her head asks Was it worth it?