Threads and Needles

Chapter 1.1

Chapter One (Part 1)

Tailored Encounters

If ambition had a smell, it would be a mix of new fabric, coffee, and fear. That’s exactly what hit me when the cab door shut behind me.

The Delos Santos Fashion Institute (DSFI) rose like a dream against the skyline of Taguig, all clean glass, pale stone, and gold-lettered signage glinting in the sun. Even the air outside shimmered with the kind of confidence that money and legacy seemed to buy. I stood there on the pavement, my reflection caught in the building’s mirrored doors, one hand clutching my suitcase handle a little too tightly, the other wiping the nervous sweat from my palm onto my jeans.

Somewhere inside were the best designers, marketers, and artists in the country. And me, the girl who still stitched her insecurities into every seam.

I had earned my place here, of course. Perfect score on the entrance exam. An essay that apparently moved the admissions board. A full scholarship. A dream I’d chased across years of early mornings, late nights, and fingers stained with ink, pencil, and dye. And yet, standing there, all I could feel was the tremor of doubt. Could I really belong here? Could a girl from a small town in Bulacan, who had spent more nights sewing by the light of a single bulb than sleeping, survive this glittering world?

Dragging my luggage across the polished tiles, I stepped into the lobby, where a massive banner unfurled across the marble wall:

WELCOME TO DSFI: WHERE IMAGINATION FINDS ITS FORM!

It was bold. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

“Room 317,” I muttered, reading the dorm slip in my hand. “Fourth floor. Here we go.”

The elevator chimed softly as I stepped in, the faint scent of lavender polish lingering in the air. I caught glimpses of other students — one carrying a sketch tube taller than me, another balancing a mannequin head with a half-finished wig. Everyone already looked like they belonged here.

When the doors opened, I followed the numbers down the corridor until I found it.

Room 317. The start of everything.

I knocked once before pushing the door open, expecting silence — maybe the hum of air conditioning or the faint scratch of someone unpacking. Instead, a familiar voice shrieked:

“Penelope!”

A blur of pink hair and perfume barreled into me. My balance wobbled; my suitcase crashed into the doorframe.

“Aria!” I laughed, hugging her back. “You’re going to bruise me before classes even start!”

“Please,” she said, flipping her cotton-candy hair over her shoulder. “Fashion requires sacrifice.”

Aria Celeste Ramos, my best friend since high school, had always been color and chaos personified. Glitter eyeliner, stacked rings, energy that never shut off. She was the type who could walk into a room and instantly turn it brighter just by existing.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be my roommate,” I said, still catching my breath.

“That’s because surprises are fabulous,” she said with a flourish, pointing to the bed nearest the window. “And I saved you the best spot. Elle wanted it.”

“I didn’t,” came a calm voice from across the room.

I turned, and there she was. Noelle Santiago, legs crossed neatly on her bed, sketchbook balanced in her lap, eyes soft and thoughtful as ever. Her smile warmed the air instantly.

“Welcome home, P,” she said. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too.” I set my bags down, grinning. “You both look exactly the same.”

“Excuse me?” Aria gasped, hand to her chest like I’d just committed blasphemy. “I am clearly more glamorous now. I’m officially a Fashion Marketing major, keywords: business, branding, and world domination.”

I snorted. “So… selling everyone else’s clothes while taking all the credit?”

She winked. “Exactly.”

Elle closed her sketchbook gently, smoothing a page with her thumb. “And I’m in Textile Design. I’ll make the fabrics you two fight over someday.”

That was Elle, grounded, poetic, and endlessly observant. The kind of person who could look at a spool of thread and see a whole story.

“What about you, P?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Fashion Design.” I smiled, feeling the word settle comfortably on my tongue. “The dream hasn’t changed.”

As I unpacked, a soft fabric slipped from between my shirts — my grandfather’s old measuring tape. Faded edges, cracked numbers, a little frayed around the middle. I ran my fingers along it, the familiar weight grounding me.

“We made it, Lolo,” I whispered.

Aria leaned over my shoulder dramatically. “No crying on day one, Bautista. Mascara streaks are not a cute look.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Good. Save the tears for midterms.”

Her teasing made me laugh, but underneath it was something warm — comfort disguised as sarcasm. Aria had always filled my silences when I couldn’t. Elle, meanwhile, was my anchor, keeping me from unraveling completely.

“Orientation’s in twenty minutes,” Elle said suddenly, glancing at the clock.

“What?” Aria yelped, diving for her tote bag. “Come on, babes, first impressions are everything!”

I clipped my ID badge to my lanyard, smoothing the laminated card.

BAUTISTA, MILES PENELOPE — Fashion Design Major.

Aria studied it for a second, then grinned. “Miles Penelope Bautista. Has a ring to it. You sound like someone the fashion world’s about to remember.”

Elle smiled softly. “Then we’ll help them remember it.”

I looked at the two of them — chaos and calm, confidence and kindness. My people. And for the first time that morning, I felt like I might actually belong.

–

When we stepped out of the residence hall, the air was thick with sunlight and nerves. The DSFI campus stretched out before us, modern buildings of glass and steel woven around open courtyards and garden paths. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the rhythmic clack of heels against tile, the hum of conversation, the faint hiss of a steamer from one of the studios.

We followed the flow of students toward the auditorium, where Orientation 2025 banners fluttered in gold and ivory. Inside, rows of chairs filled the hall, buzzing with laughter, perfume, and camera shutters. We found seats in the middle, Aria immediately pulling out her phone for a quick selfie.

“Smile like we already made it,” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway.

On stage, a woman stepped up to the podium — poised, elegant, with hair so glossy it could blind. Her heels clicked against the floor like punctuation marks.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, her voice smooth and commanding. “I’m Professor Adriana Velez, Dean of the Institute. Welcome to the Delos Santos Fashion Institute, the country’s most prestigious home for aspiring designers, creators, and innovators.”

Aria leaned over to me and whispered, “She looks like she eats critics for breakfast.”

“She probably does,” Elle murmured, smiling faintly.

Dean Velez continued, “At DSFI, creativity is your currency. Whether you design, market, or model — every stitch, sketch, and stride tells a story. Here, we don’t follow trends. We create them.”

Applause rippled through the crowd. My heart fluttered between excitement and fear.

She spoke about tradition, excellence, sacrifice — the holy trinity of ambition.

Then, with a small smile, she added, “You’ll meet people who challenge you, inspire you, and maybe even outshine you. Embrace it. Greatness doesn’t grow in comfort.”

Aria whispered, “And there’s the fine print.”

I bit back a laugh.

When it ended, the room erupted into chatter. A group of senior students waved colored signs for the campus tours — GROUP A, GROUP B, GROUP C.

“Group C, Fashion Design and Marketing students, this way!” a voice called cheerfully.

“That’s us,” Aria said, linking her arm through mine. “Let’s go before the cute guide fills up.”