Sunlight dappled through the leaves, warming Anne's sketchbook. Her charcoal moved with swift, confident strokes, bringing a whimsical unicorn to life on the pristine page. A soft breeze ruffled her hair, carrying the distant sounds of high school chatter. This small corner under the ancient oak tree was her sanctuary, a place where dreams took tangible form. Maya nudged her arm, interrupting the flow. "Seriously, Anne? More mythical beasts? Your family expects you to apply for architecture, not art school." Her voice, though teasing, held a hint of genuine concern. Maya always saw the practical side. Beside her, Chloe nodded. "She's right. It's a stable career. You'd be good at it. You have an eye for detail." Chloe was always the peacemaker, trying to bridge Anne's artistic whims with Maya's pragmatic worldview. Anne’s pen froze. Her jaw tightened, a familiar stubbornness taking root. "My family especially my mom expects me to be miserable, Maya. I want to paint. I want to create worlds, not just design buildings to exist within them." Her voice, usually bright, held an edge. Chloe sighed, pushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "But Anne, think about it. Architecture is art, too. Just… structured art. Your parents, they’re professionals. They just want you to have a secure future. A good life." The words were gentle, but they felt like chains. Anne slammed her sketchbook shut. A puff of charcoal dust rose, a faint cloud around her frustration. "A good life? What good is a life without passion? Without color? A life where I spend every day doing something I hate, just to pay bills?" Her voice rose, indignant. The thought alone made her skin crawl. Her friends exchanged a look. They knew Anne. They knew her fire, her unwavering belief in living a life full of vibrant emotion. This wasn't a new argument. It was a constant hum beneath their daily interactions. "Look, Anne," Maya started, her tone softening. "We just don't want to see you struggle. Art is hard. It's competitive. Your parents, they’ve worked so hard for you to have opportunities." She placed a comforting hand on Anne's shoulder. Anne shrugged it off, not in anger, but in a deep-seated frustration. "And I appreciate them. I do. But this is my life. My future. Not theirs." She gathered her things, the unicorn on her sketchbook cover seemed to glare defiantly at the world. Rising to her feet, Anne stretched, feeling the stiffness in her muscles. "I have to go. My grandparents will be waiting." She offered a tight smile. "We'll talk more later." She knew they wouldn't. This conversation always ended the same way. Walking home, the afternoon sun casts long shadows ahead of her. The weight of her friends' words, of her parents' expectations, pressed down. She pictured herself in a sterile office, drafting blueprints, her soul slowly eroding with each straight line. The thought made her shiver despite the warmth of the day. Anne loved her family fiercely. She knew their intentions were good, born from love and a desire for her security. But their definition of security felt like a cage, a gilded one perhaps, but a cage nonetheless. The scent of freshly baked cookies hit Anne the moment she pushed open the front door. Instantly, the tension in her shoulders eased. This was home, truly home. Her grandparents' house, filled with warmth, laughter, and the comforting aroma of baking. "There's my little artist!" Grandpa Leo boomed from the living room, his voice a warm rumble. He was already standing, arms open for a hug. His silver hair was slightly dishevelled, his eyes twinkling. Anne melted into his embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of old books and pipe tobacco. His arms were strong, comforting. "Grandpa!" she chirped, her earlier frustration momentarily forgotten. Her grandmother, Elara, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Did you have a good day, darling? I made your favorite, lemon tarts." Her smile was soft, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Elara always knew how to make everything better. Anne nodded, beaming. "The best!" She loved their unconditional support, their belief in her dreams, even when they knew her parents had other plans. They were her secret allies, her haven from the pressures of the outside world. Sitting at the kitchen table, a warm tart on a plate before her, Anne recounted her day, carefully omitting the art school discussion. She focused on a funny anecdote from chemistry class, making her grandparents laugh. Their laughter was a balm to her soul. Just as she finished the last bite, her mother, Elena, arrived, a briefcase clutched in her hand. Elena was a vision of professional elegance, her tailored suit crisp, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. Her presence always shifted the atmosphere, bringing a subtle formality into the cozy kitchen. "Anne, darling." Elena smiled, a polite, somewhat tired smile. She kissed Anne's forehead, then greeted her parents. "How was school today? Did you meet with the guidance counselor about your university applications?" The question was direct, leaving no room for evasion. Anne’s shoulders tensed again. She pushed the plate away. "Not yet, Mom. I had a test in physics." A partial truth. She had a test, but she had also deliberately avoided the counselor. Elena's eyes, so like Anne's own, narrowed slightly. "Anne, we've talked about this. The deadlines are approaching. You need to focus. Architecture is a wonderful field, full of opportunity. Your father and I just want you to have a secure future. Like ours." Grandpa Leo cleared his throat, a subtle warning. "Elena, let the girl breathe. She's just home." He knew how to gently deflect, but even his influence had limits when it came to Elena's carefully laid plans for her daughter. "She needs to understand the importance of this, Father," Elena replied, her voice firm, though still gentle. "A professional degree will open so many doors. Art, darling, is a hobby. A lovely pastime. But not a career path." Her words were delivered with an air of absolute certainty, as if stating an undeniable truth. Anne looked at her mother, at the beautiful, successful woman who had everything but seemed to lack a certain spark. A spark Anne desperately craved for herself. She saw her mother’s deep love, yes, but also a fear. A fear of Anne struggling, of Anne not being 'enough' in a world that valued practicality above all else. "Mom, I…" Anne started, but the words caught in her throat. How could she explain the visceral need to paint, to feel the brush in her hand, the colors swirling on a canvas? It wasn’t a hobby. It was her breath, her heartbeat. Her grandmother reached over, squeezing Anne's hand under the table, a silent gesture of comfort and understanding. Anne squeezed back, grateful for the small connection. Elena continued, oblivious to the silent exchange. "You’re so talented, Anne. Imagine applying that creativity to something substantial. Designing homes, creating urban spaces. You could leave a legacy." Her voice was persuasive, painting a picture of success and respectability. Anne imagined it. She imagined the prestige, the comfortable salary, the approval of her parents. And she imagined a hollow ache in her chest, a void where her true self should be. The idea was suffocating, a slow, inevitable death of her spirit. "Your uncle is an architect," Elena added, playing her trump card. "He could even get you an internship. Think of the head start you'd have." She smiled, confident she had presented an irrefutable argument. Anne pushed back from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor. The sound echoed in the sudden quiet of the kitchen. "I need some air," she murmured, her voice tight, barely above a whisper. She couldn't argue. Not now. The words would just turn into a fight she wasn't ready to have. Stepping outside, the cool evening air was a welcome shock against her heated skin. She walked around the garden, the scent of night-blooming jasmine filling the air. Her mind raced, a whirlwind of anger, frustration, and a fierce, burning resolve. She couldn't give up. Not on this. Not on herself. She remembered the small art academy downtown, the one her friends had dismissed as 'impractical.' They had an open enrollment period coming up, separate from the university applications. A chance. A plan began to form, daring and reckless. It felt like a rebellion, a desperate bid for freedom. Her heart pounded with a mix of fear and exhilaration. She had to try. She had to fight for the life she envisioned, the one full of color and unbridled passion. --- Moonlight sliced through her window as Anne slipped out of bed. Her backpack, packed with the official forms, sat waiting. She crept silently down the stairs, each step a testament to her resolve, her entire being focused on the mission. She would change her course of study. And if that failed, if all attempts to study her dream course should fail, she knew what she had to do. She would simply fail the exams. She sneaks out in the evening with the intention of changing her course of study and the resolution to fail the exams if all attempts to study her dream course should fail.

Chapter 1: Stubborn dreamer