Threads and Needles

Chapter 1.2

Chapter One (Part 2)

Tailored Encounters

Our tour guide introduced himself as Cassian, a senior who looked like he’d stepped out of an editorial shoot — long cream coat, circular glasses, a sketchbook tucked under his arm. Even his clipboard looked expensive.

“Welcome to DSFI, Group C,” he said with a smile that probably made half the crowd melt. “First stop, the Design Wing. Follow me, and please don’t get lost. You wouldn’t want to be late for your future.”

Aria elbowed me. “I think I just found my new favorite professor.”

“He’s not a professor,” I whispered.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s cute.”

Elle only shook her head, amused. “Focus, Aria. We’re here to learn.”

We followed Cassian through glass hallways that glowed with sunlight. Every wall was a gallery — framed sketches, editorial spreads, gowns suspended like art installations. It felt like walking through a living magazine. I trailed my fingers along the glass, the faint hum of air-conditioning matching the beat of my heart.

Cassian stopped in front of a pair of heavy double doors. “This,” he said, sweeping them open dramatically, “is the Design Studio Complex. The soul of DSFI.”

Inside, rows of mannequins stood like silent witnesses, draped in works-in-progress. Sewing machines whirred in the background. The smell of fabric glue and pressed cotton hung thick in the air. Every table had something in motion — sketches, muslin folds, color swatches.

“You’ll live here,” Cassian said with a knowing grin. “Fashion Design students eat, sleep, and breathe these walls.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. I could feel it already — the hum of creation, the quiet chaos of people turning imagination into something tangible.

“Each of you will get your own workstation,” Cassian continued. “By midterms, this place will look like a battlefield of fabric and caffeine.”

Aria snapped photos of everything. “Even the mess is aesthetic,” she whispered.

Elle lingered by a display of fabric samples, her fingers tracing one with a delicate touch. “Cotton-silk blend,” she murmured, half to herself. “Hand-dyed.”

Cassian smiled. “You’re in Textile Design, aren’t you?”

Elle blinked, startled. “How’d you know?”

“You have the look,” he said. “You see texture first, not color.”

I glanced at her, and she blushed slightly — a rare thing for Elle Santiago.

From there, we passed into another building connected by a glass bridge overlooking the courtyard. Below, students lounged on benches beside a sculptural fountain shaped like a cascading sheet of fabric, sunlight sparkling off its curves.

As we walked, I found myself narrating silently in my head, as if writing a letter to my younger self — the one who dreamed of being here.

DSFI wasn’t just a school. It was a universe of its own.

There was Fashion Design — my major, the beating heart of the institute.

Then Textile Design, Elle’s sanctuary, where fabric became poetry.

Fashion Marketing and Merchandising, Aria’s empire, where style met strategy.

There was Accessories Design for the jewelry prodigies, Costume and Bridal Couture for the hopeless romantics, Modeling and Presentation Arts for the bold and camera-born, and Sustainable Fashion Innovation for the idealists trying to save the world one garment at a time.

Every major had its own building, its own language, its own tribe. And they all led to one thing — the runway, DSFI’s heartbeat.

Cassian gestured toward the glass bridge rail. “Below us is the central courtyard. That fountain you see is called La Costura — it’s said to represent the flow of creativity. Tradition says you toss a thread in before your first show for good luck.”

Aria immediately fished a spool of pink thread from her bag. “What? I’m prepared.”

I grinned. “Of course you are.”

Next, we reached the Marketing & Merchandising Department. A sleek, open space filled with presentation boards, photoshoot sets, and a giant digital screen looping fashion campaigns. Students were rehearsing mock product pitches, their voices confident and animated.

“This,” Cassian announced, “is where business meets creativity. Marketing students learn branding, retail strategy, and digital storytelling, the art of selling an emotion.”

Aria’s eyes lit up. “Oh, this is definitely my natural habitat.”

“Translation,” I teased, “You get to talk a lot and call it research.”

She smirked. “Exactly. I was born for this.”

From there, we entered the Runway Hall — a long, sunlit corridor with a sleek, black catwalk slicing through its center. Sunbeams streamed in through the glass ceiling, scattering across mirrored walls. A group of students were practicing posture and balance at the far end, a professor calling out instructions in crisp Taglish.

“This,” Cassian said, “belongs to our Modeling and Presentation Arts students. You’ll see them here daily, practicing form and fluidity. During the DSFI Gala, this hall becomes our official runway.”

I could almost hear the music already, the rhythmic echo of heels, the sharp bursts of camera shutters. For a heartbeat, I imagined my designs walking down that runway, catching the light like liquid silk.

Cassian must have noticed my expression. “First years get to help backstage at the Gala,” he said. “It’s exhausting… but life-changing.”

Elle whispered softly beside me, “You’ll see your name there someday, P.”

I didn’t reply — not because I didn’t believe her, but because believing too much hurt in a way hope always does.

We ended the tour at the Innovation Studio, a high-tech glass dome with displays of digital fashion models, sustainable materials, and prototypes of 3D-printed accessories. Students were bent over tablets and sewing machines that looked like they belonged in a sci-fi film.

“Sustainable Fashion Innovation,” Cassian explained. “The newest major at DSFI. Our students here experiment with eco-textiles, virtual prototyping, even AI-assisted design.”

Elle’s eyes widened. “It’s beautiful.”

“Intimidating,” I whispered, earning a soft chuckle from her.

Aria looped an arm through mine. “Don’t worry, P. We’ll make this place our runway soon enough.”

When the tour ended, we found ourselves back in the courtyard by La Costura. The sunlight glittered over the water, scattering gold across the marble edges. Students were already breaking off into friend groups, laughing, taking pictures, already belonging.

I sat on the edge of the fountain, my sketchbook on my lap. The page was blank — but my fingers itched to fill it.

Aria was scrolling through her camera roll. “So… first impressions?”

“Beautiful,” Elle said, not looking up from her sketchbook.

“Overwhelming,” I admitted, smiling faintly. “But in a good way.”

Aria stretched, her bracelets clinking in the sunlight. “That’s DSFI for you, equal parts dream and danger. But we’ve got each other, so we’ll survive.”

I laughed. “You make it sound like a war.”

“It is,” she said matter-of-factly. “A fashionable one.”