𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚☕︎

The smell of burnt toast was the first thing Sienna noticed.

The second was Brooke.

It was barely 7 a.m., and her daughter was already sitting at the kitchen table in her favorite hoodie, mug of coffee in one hand, pen tucked behind her ear, and college brochures spread across the entire table like a paper battlefield.

A pile of toast—some half-eaten, some totally ignored—sat beside her, as if she couldn't decide whether breakfast or panic was the priority.

Sienna blinked, still in her robe, and walked into the room slowly. "Wow. Nothing like a light existential crisis before sunrise."

Brooke glanced up, her hair tied in a messy bun, eyes a little too alert for this hour. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. Figured I'd start mapping out deadlines."

"Did you also map out my table's ability to survive this chaos?"

Brooke looked around at the brochures, handwritten notes, her highlighter-streaked planner, and shrugged. "I needed space."

Sienna walked over and plucked a brochure off the salt shaker. "You've spread your entire future across my table, just FYI."

Brooke smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Sienna sat across from her. "You okay?"

"I'm just trying to figure out where I belong, you know?" Brooke poked at the edge of a Yale application. "Every college says the same thing—'find your voice, tell your story, stand out.' But what if I'm not that interesting?"

"Brooke," Sienna said gently. "You make entire outfits out of thoughts. You write captions for your own sketches. You turned a breakup into a blouse."

"It was a very well-stitched blouse," Brooke muttered.

"Exactly. Just write like you talk. Be you. That's the girl I'd let into any school."

Brooke took a sip of her coffee and sighed. "Do you think NYU's dorms are haunted?"

Sienna raised a brow. "Is that a concern or a selling point?"

At School – Guidance Counselor's Office

Mrs. Pettigrew's office was a time capsule of laminated posters, stress ball bins, and crooked motivational quotes.

Brooke sat in the green plastic chair, facing the corkboard wall of deadline charts, trying not to look as overwhelmed as she felt.

"So," Mrs. Pettigrew said, tapping her keyboard with slow, deliberate clicks. "Early Decision applications are due in a few weeks. Any schools in mind?"

"I... might want to go to New York."

"That's great! NYU, FIT, Parsons?"

Brooke nodded, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "I'm still figuring it out."

"Well, you've got the grades, and your extracurriculars are solid. But the essay's what really matters. That's where they want your soul on a page."

Brooke blinked. "Cool. No pressure."

Mrs. Pettigrew smiled like a well-meaning ghost. "Just be honest. Who are you outside of school?"

Brooke thought of her sketchbook. Her camera. The way she mentally rewrote people's outfits in her head when she was bored.

"I think," she said slowly, "I'm someone who tells stories. Just... visually."

The table by the window was covered in iced coffees, color-coded notebooks, and the familiar sound of Rae narrating her stress.

"If I have to write the word resilience one more time," Rae groaned, "I'm going to drop out and become a flight attendant."

"I'd let you serve me ginger ale," Lena offered, flipping through her AP Lit binder.

Brooke stared down at her own notes, a little quieter than usual. Rae nudged her knee under the table.

"You okay?"

Brooke hesitated. "Just tired."

"From school, or from the giant life decisions weighing down your very soul?" Rae asked brightly.

"Yes."

They all laughed, and for a moment, the pressure faded just a little.

The brochures had followed her upstairs again.

Brooke sat at her desk, sketchbook open, college portal blinking on the screen. But instead of typing, she'd been doodling in the margins — a jacket with sharp shoulders and a quote stitched across the back:

"If I can't say it, I'll wear it."

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

In the corner of her room, the fairy lights glowed.

Her corkboard was filled with fabric scraps, sketches, quotes. It didn't look like a college dorm or a vision board or a five-year plan.

It looked like her. Messy. Creative. Unapologetically her.

She typed a sentence.

Then deleted it.

Then typed again.

"I've always felt more fluent in fabric than in feelings."

She paused. Smiled.

Maybe she didn't have all the answers yet. But she was starting to ask the right questions.