The alarm rang before sunrise. I lay still for a moment, listening to the city breathe outside the window. Velinor was already awake, cars humming in the distance, the smell of rain drifting through the half-open glass.
Today was the first day of the rest of my life. At least, that was what I told myself.
I slipped out of bed, washed my face, and stood in front of the mirror. My reflection looked uncertain, like she still needed convincing. I leaned closer and whispered the kind of words I used to wait for someone else to say.
You belong here.
You can do this.
Fear is the only thing in your way.
Back home, I had spent years trying to fit into the shape my family built for me. Here, there was no one to shrink for. No mother watching the clock, no aunt asking if I had found a "real job." Only me, my dream, and this city that didn't know my name yet.
Eida was still asleep when I left the apartment. The air was cool, soft against my skin. I took the train toward the academy, clutching a small notebook that held my class schedule and a few half-scribbled affirmations. Every stop brought me closer to the place I had imagined a hundred times while saving money in my aunt's house.
When I reached the building, sunlight touched the glass panels of the entrance. Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of coffee and old paint. Voices echoed from every direction—students greeting each other, shoes tapping, laughter rolling like gentle waves.
My classroom was on the second floor. Voice and Expression was written on a small metal plaque beside the door. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
A few students were already there. Some were chatting, others adjusting their notebooks or checking their phones. The room was lined with mirrors and thick curtains that softened the light. It looked like a place where people came to become someone else.
Mrs. Merdont entered a few minutes later. She was in her late forties, wearing a fitted jacket and a calm expression that carried quiet authority.
"Good morning, everyone," she said. Her voice was quite soothing. "Welcome to Voice and Expression. This class is where you learn to listen before you speak, to feel before you perform. Let's begin with introductions."
One by one, students stood and said their names, sharing where they came from and what they hoped to achieve. When my turn arrived, I felt my palms dampen.
"I'm Venny Hearts," I said. "I came from Brion to study acting. My dream is to work in film."
Mrs. Merdont smiled. "Beautiful goal, Venny. Acting begins with the voice, so you're in the right place."
We moved on to short exercises. Each student was asked to read a few lines from a poem Mrs. Merdont handed out. When the sheet reached me, my heartbeat filled my ears. I read the lines slowly, feeling the rhythm, but my accent caught on a few words.
"Good," Mrs. Merdont said when I finished. "You have honest emotion. That's more important than perfect diction right now. Technique can be learned. Honesty can't."
The class clapped softly. My cheeks warmed, but her words settled inside me like a quiet promise.
After the exercise, we practiced breathing and projection. I partnered with a boy who introduced himself as Mylo Rights. He had kind brown eyes and a voice that carried gentle humor.
"So you're new here," he said as we waited for our turn.
"Please don't say it's obvious…"
"It is. You look like you're trying to memorize the ceiling."
I laughed. "I'm just trying not to mess up."
"You'll be fine. Mrs. Merdont values effort more than perfection."
We took turns reciting tongue twisters until our voices broke into laughter. Mylo seemed at ease in every movement. He mentioned he'd grown up in Velinor and had relatives in the music industry, but he didn't say more.
When the class ended, my shoulders felt lighter. Mrs. Merdont stopped me before I left.
"Keep practicing your articulation," she said. "You have presence. Don't lose it by overthinking."
"I won't," I promised.
Outside, the hallway buzzed with conversation. A group of students clustered near the door, phones raised, excitement spilling from every voice.
"Did you see it?" one girl said. "It's everywhere."
"What happened?" I asked.
"Andre Labet. He was performing last night, then a fan pulled and kissed him on stage. He kissed her back though. It's all over social media."
Someone turned their screen toward me. A video played: bright lights, a roaring crowd, a man in a black shirt holding a microphone. The fan reached up, pulled him close, and for a second the world seemed to stop before he kissed her.
I didn't care much for celebrity gossip, but the camera caught his face as he pulled away. The same settled composure I'd noticed that day outside the academy. The confidence I craved to have. His eyes glimmered with something that didn't match the chaos around him.
"That's him," the girl said. "The king of stage heat."
"Doesn't he have a girlfriend?" another asked.
"They say he doesn't do commitment. None of them do."
I smiled faintly and handed the phone back. "Maybe he just got caught in the moment."
"Maybe," she said, scrolling again. "Still, I pity whoever dates him."
On the train ride home, I kept thinking about the look on his face. Not the kiss, not the noise around it, but the stillness in his eyes afterward.
Velinor was full of people chasing something—fame, love, purpose. Maybe he was chasing something too.
I pressed my forehead against the window, watching the city blur by. My throat ached from the morning's exercises, but it felt like the ache of growth, not defeat.
When I reached Eida's apartment, she was waiting at the kitchen table with tea.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Ugh! Terrifying," I said, then smiled. "But good."
She slid a cup toward me. "That's a good sign. And trust me, it gets better from here."
I sipped slowly, letting the warmth settle through me. The day had started with fear and ended with possibility. For the first time in years, I didn't feel trapped.
Later, when I opened my notebook, I wrote one line before turning off the light:
Each step brings me closer.
I didn't know it yet, but the name Andre Labet would soon find its way onto those pages again—and not as a headline.