I used to think that leaving would fix everything.
That a new city, a new skyline, would silence the noise in my head.
But the truth is, you can't run from expectations. You just learn how to carry them differently.
When I boarded the plane to Velinor, I carried a single suitcase, a heart full of guilt, and the quiet hope that maybe, this time, I would finally belong to myself.
Everyone said I was foolish. That I was wasting my degree. That acting was a hobby, not a job. My family wanted me in a suit, behind a desk, working respectable hours and collecting respectable paychecks.
But every time I tried to picture myself sitting in an office, my chest tightened until it hurt. I hated the thought of it so deeply it almost made me cry.
I wanted the kind of life that felt alive. One that didn't start at nine and end at five.
After graduation, I stayed with my aunt for a few months. She was kind, but her house always felt too small for my dreams. She didn't mean to limit me, but every time she asked, "Have you found a real job yet?" It felt like she was pressing a lid on something that wanted to grow.
So I worked small jobs, saved every bit I could, and bought a one-way ticket to Velinor.
The first thing I noticed when I arrived was the smell. The air carried the faint sweetness of rain and roasted coffee. The city was bigger than I'd imagined, its rhythm fast enough to drown out my hesitation. Tall glass buildings reflected the afternoon light, and people walked with the kind of confidence that made me want to learn their secrets.
Eida met me at the airport with a tight hug. She smelled like perfume and comfort. We'd known each other for years, but seeing her again made something ache in my chest.
"My glorious Venny is finally here," she said, smiling so wide, tears almost left her eyes.
"I am," I said, though the words felt fragile, like if I said them too loudly, they might break.
She talked as we drove through the city, telling me about her husband and their small apartment, about how Velinor could be lonely if you didn't know where to look. I tried to listen, but my thoughts kept drifting. Every street corner looked like a beginning, every traffic light like a quiet promise.
When we reached her apartment, she helped me unpack. The room she'd prepared for me was small but warm, filled with sunlight and pale curtains that swayed when the wind passed.
"You'll find your place here, Venny" she said. "You always do."
I smiled because she believed it, even if I didn't.
That night, after she went to bed, I stood by the window and watched the city lights blink like distant stars. Velinor was alive in a way my hometown never was. The sounds of laughter, engines, and faint music from somewhere below felt like an invitation.
I wanted to believe this was a new beginning. But the weight of my family's words still echoed.
Be practical.
Acting isn't a career.
You'll regret this.
I wondered if they were right. I wondered if I'd end up another dreamer with nothing but stories of what could have been. But then I remembered how it felt to be on stage — the hush before the spotlight found me, the pulse in my chest that told me I was exactly where I should be.
That feeling was worth everything I left behind.
The next morning, Eida took me to the performing arts institute where I'd enrolled. The building was modern, lined with glass panels and a tall silver sign that read Velinor Academy of Film and Stage. Just seeing it made my pulse race.
Inside, students were scattered across the lobby, their voices rising in quick bursts of laughter and excitement. They looked like they belonged. Confident, radiant, free. I stood there for a moment, clutching my folder, trying to convince myself that I did too.
I went through the registration process, filled out the last of the paperwork, and walked back outside.
Across the street, a crowd had gathered near a black car. Someone was taking photos, and the sound of shutters clicked like rain.
I wasn't curious at first, but when the crowd shifted, I saw him.
Tall, sharp in a black coat, with a kind of effortless presence that made everything else fade. I didn't recognize his face, but I felt the strange pull of familiarity, like I'd seen him in a dream I'd forgotten.
He smiled at someone in the crowd — a brief, polite smile — and the flash of cameras caught his eyes. Even from a distance, I could see the calm in his expression. He moved with certainty, as if the world always made room for him.
Someone whispered beside me, "That's Andre Labet."
The name floated in the air, unfamiliar yet heavy with meaning.
I watched him enter the car and drive away, the noise of the crowd fading behind him. For a second, I thought he looked up — not at me, but through me.
It was nothing, probably. A coincidence.
Still, when I walked back to Eida's car, my chest felt warm, as if something had quietly shifted.
That night, I wrote in my journal. I wrote about leaving home, about wanting to start over, and about the man whose name I didn't yet know how to spell.
I didn't realize it then, but that was the first page of everything that was about to change.