One Hot Cofee After

“Ollie, look at how cute you and Maxie look here.” I hold up my phone, angling it just right so she has no choice but to see the picture. “I somehow miss college guys already.” No response. Not from Ollie, not from anyone. I sigh dramatically, flopping back onto the grass. “Wow. Okay. Ignored on the last day of our after-college tour. Love that for me.” Still nothing. Maxie and Ollie are too busy bickering about the best pizza in the city, and the rest of our friends are off taking selfies in front of the Brooklyn Bridge, soaking in every last bit of this moment before real life kicks in. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, willing myself to remember all of this. The way the sunlight touches Ollie's absurd red curls, the cool breeze, and the bustle of the metropolis. I would shake this moment anytime I feel lost if I could capture it in a snow globe. But despite my best efforts to stay focused, my thoughts continue to wander and cling to something more significant. My future. I picture my brand, my name on a label right next to Gucci, Versace, Ames. I see celebrities wearing my designs, flashing them on runways, making headlines. The dream is vivid, intoxicating. Fashion has always been it for me. I wasn’t born with a tiny waist, unfortunately. I didn’t look like the girls on the cover of magazines. I’m not obsessed, but I’m not a cover girl either which is what makes it all somewhat annoying. I always struggled to fit in math, English, all the classes. But I definitely knew everything that could go with a plaid top. A high-waist jean? Yes, please. The feeling of fabrics fascinated me. My submission for the Express Yourself pageant in high school was all the confirmation I needed. I drew designs for people like me. I let my pen speak my truth and the fabrics well, they said it bold and clear: I am comfortable with who I am. I might be insecure about it, but I will show up in the rooms I should be in, unapologetically. The spark in their eyes when I came on stage… “Fashion should be a fluid outlet of expression. What good is a world where one size fits all? There is beauty in the diversity of our bodies. I might not be a cover girl pick, but I should be able to express myself in my way, my style. Today, I’ve paired this chiffon, pre-angle-touch sleeve, button-up blouse because chiffon *screams*—it doesn’t whisper. The shimmer makes you take a second look. Its transparency represents vulnerability, which everyone has. I let you see through not just the clothes, but my heart. I’m a good-humor girl who loves to binge movies and eat Cheetos. For my bottoms, I’ve gone with this hourglass—but not fitted—crepe skirt. It’s down to my knees and flowy, to remind you of royalty. It is shaped like an hourglass not to enhance my figure, but to tell you that it is my time now. That’s why there are more shreds at the bottom—because I’m no longer hiding. I’m here.” I don’t know when I dropped a tear. The loud sound of applause broke me out of my thoughts. The judges were standing. I definitely had a fair shot at this thing. I wish my parents were here to see this. Maybe they would understand that it’s not just clothes and fabrics. It’s the message. It’s the boldness in softness. It’s how I find myself again every time I sketch or sew. Maybe they would listen to me more and understand what I’m about, that I’m not just chasing some silly dream. I was going to do fashion as a major in college with or without their approval. I had to. It’s been a couple of years now since I last spoke to them. I miss them. My dad’s odd jokes about everything and anything. My mom humming while folding laundry. I try not to think about it too much, but on days like this, the ache feels fresh. But then reality nudges its way in. Hard work. Passion. Dedication. No sudden flights, Dayna. No skipping steps. I’ve applied for the top internships, just like Madam H suggested. The woman who saw my potential before I even believed in it myself. My guardian angel wrapped in Chanel and an unhealthy obsession with her cats. I remember when Madam H looked at my first sketch and said, “You’re not designing clothes, you’re telling the world a secret.” She saw right through me—my hopes, my fears, my obsession with making the unseen seen. She told me that fear and genius often share a room. I guess I’ve been living in that room for a while. I should feel confident. I should know I have a shot. But instead, doubt creeps in. Am I good enough? Am I talented enough, bold enough, me enough? What if everything I dreamt of is just that—a dream? And I wake up to a life I never wanted? “Dee! Ostrich Dee!” My eyes snap open. Ollie is towering over me, hands on her hips, that signature smirk on her face. “I am not an ostrich,” I grumble, sitting up. “You are an ostrich. Always burying your head in the sand, overthinking.” She plops down beside me, stretching out her legs. “Now spill. What’s going on in that ridiculously overactive brain of yours?” I hesitate for half a second. Then I exhale, glancing at her. “What if I don’t get picked?” Ollie doesn’t even blink. “Then we riot.” I snort. “Seriously, Ollie.” She nudges me. “Seriously, Dayna. You’re one of the best designers I’ve ever seen. If Hanson Fashion has any sense, they’ll see it too.” I chew my lip, letting her words sink in. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do have a shot. And if I do, if I actually get that internship nothing is going to stand in my way. I lay back down, feeling the sun warm my face, the sound of the city buzzing around me like background music to the start of something bigger. This might be the last stop of our little after-college escape, but something tells me it’s only the beginning of everything I’ve ever wanted.