I said goodbye to Mom at the door.
She kissed my cheek, her hand lingering on my shoulder like she was memorizing me.
"You've got this," she said softly. Her eyes shone with pride and worry all at once, the way only a mother's could.
I nodded. Didn't tell her I'd already lived this day. Just smiled, adjusted the strap of my bag, and walked to the car.
The drive felt short, though my mind replayed flashes of what I knew would come — the way the campus would smell faintly of coffee and new books, the way strangers would look at me and then look away.
When I arrived at Parsons, the sun was high, casting gold across the glass-and-steel building. The morning air carried the faint bite of late summer, crisp enough to make me pull my blazer a little tighter.
Students milled around the courtyard, clutching folders, laughing nervously, adjusting their outfits like they were preparing for battle. Some stood in small groups, already bonding over shared excitement, while others lingered at the edges, scanning the crowd with cautious eyes.
Staff in sleek black lanyards tried to organize the chaos, calling out names, directing people toward tables with glossy pamphlets and color-coded folders.
A banner stretched across the entrance in bold red letters:
WELCOME, CLASS OF 2014 – CREATE WITHOUT PERMISSION.
I didn't gasp. Didn't stare. Didn't whisper, "It's so beautiful."
Because I'd been here.
In this exact spot.
Ten years from now.
I knew the way the light hit the east wing at 10 a.m. I knew the hum of the design lab, the smell of fabric dye that clung to the hallways, the echo of footsteps in the main building.
So while others tilted their heads in awe, I walked forward like I belonged.
And then, as always, the eyes found me.
Not because I was dressed poorly — I wore the navy blazer from the boutique, sharp and structured, paired with tailored trousers that fit like armor.
Not because I tried to stand out — I didn't. I'd chosen clean lines and quiet colors, the kind of outfit that spoke without shouting.
But because of my face.
The whispers started low, weaving through the crowd like smoke.
"Is that Evelyn Morgan?"
"Wait, is she… the one from the Morgan family?"
"She got in? But look at her nose."
"I heard she's rich. Maybe that's how."
"No way she made it on talent."
They didn't say it loud. They never do.
But I heard it anyway — in the way a girl turned her head too fast, pretending not to look. In the way a guy nudged his friend when I passed. In the way two girls leaned closer, their voices low but their eyes fixed on me.
Like I was a puzzle they couldn't solve. Or a story they wanted to rewrite.
Let them talk.
I wasn't here to impress. I wasn't here to prove anything.
I was here because this was mine.
I found my group. Took my place in line.
Didn't smile. Didn't flinch.
Just stood — still, calm, unbothered.
The dean appeared on the steps, microphone in hand, his voice carrying easily over the chatter. He spoke about vision, about courage, about breaking rules and reimagining the world through design. His words had weight, but also rhythm, as though he'd given this speech countless times and still believed every word of it.
Around me, students scribbled in the margins of their programs, doodling dresses, buildings, and wild ideas. Their excitement filled the air, buzzing louder than the cicadas in the nearby trees.
I lifted my gaze to the high glass ceiling of the hall behind him, sunlight spilling across the floor like liquid gold.
Yes.
It was beautiful.
But beauty wasn't what I came for.
I came to change the story.
And this time, I wouldn't let anyone rewrite mine.