Ann thought of what to do to get herself involved in something, anything, that would finally drive Alex's thoughts completely out of her head. Not suppress them, not negotiate with them, not push them aside temporarily like loose papers on a desk, but erase them. She wanted a distraction so consuming it would leave no room for memories, no corner for his voice to echo in, no silence where his name could bloom again.
The thoughts of Alex had become like background noise in her life, sometimes faint, sometimes deafening, but always there. In the quiet moments, they returned. In the busy ones, they waited. She was tired of that waiting. Tired of how a single name could still rearrange the furniture of her heart. She needed something demanding, something ambitious, something that would ask for all of her intellect and all of her time, leaving nothing behind, not even scraps, for emotional leftovers.
Now, she was a fresh graduate of the University of Illinois. That sentence alone still felt unreal to her, like a borrowed title she was afraid someone would ask her to return. Fresh graduate. The words carried weight, promise, expectation. They also carried fear. But beneath all of that was readiness, quiet, steady readiness. She was done being a student who only answered questions. She wanted to become someone who asked them. Someone who solved problems instead of memorizing them.
She was ready to start showcasing her potentials.
Not in whispers. Not cautiously. But boldly.
That was when the AIA Illinois Honor Awards came into her line of sight, not as a casual thought, but as a calling. Fresh graduates working as architectural interns, unlicensed professionals like herself, were allowed to submit their projects or research for the Design Awards. High-visibility awards. Celebrated across the state. The kind of recognition that didn't just pat you on the back but pushed you into rooms where decisions were made and futures were shaped.
She read the description again and again, her eyes tracing the words as though they might disappear if she blinked too hard. "Architectural interns." That was her now. The phrase fit her like a tailored jacket she hadn't yet broken into. "Design Awards." Her chest tightened, not from fear, but from anticipation. This wasn't a classroom grade. This wasn't a professor's nod. This was Illinois watching.
She leaned back in her chair, stared at the ceiling, and let the idea sink into her bones.
"I must be great," she told herself quietly.
Not I will try. Not I hope. But I must. The word rang like a vow. Not out of arrogance, but out of necessity. Greatness, to her, wasn't an ego trip, it was survival. It was how she intended to outrun her past.
Her mind immediately returned to her final thesis at the University of Illinois, the project that had once kept her awake for weeks and had nearly broken her before it shaped her. That was where it would start. Or perhaps, she thought, a high-concept studio project, something unbuilt, something daring, something that existed first in the realm of thought before ever touching the ground.
She knew the juries for unbuilt work weren't interested in safe ideas. They didn't want pretty drawings that only looked good framed on white walls. They wanted provocation. They wanted discomfort. They wanted questions that scratched at the conscience of a city. They wanted projects that stared directly at massive issues and refused to look away.
Chicago's food deserts. Climate-resilient housing. Repurposing abandoned CTA infrastructure.
She didn't want to echo those examples; she wanted to answer them.
Ann decided she would design a project that confronted the silent inequality stitched into Chicago's urban fabric, a city celebrated for its skyline while entire neighborhoods struggled quietly beneath its shadow. Her concept would not just exist as an idea; it would argue. It would challenge. It would demand attention.
She chose to work on adaptive urban architecture that transformed abandoned transit infrastructure into climate-resilient community hubs, spaces that merged housing, food access, and social support. Structures that did not merely occupy land but healed it. Buildings that listened before they spoke.
The idea consumed her instantly.
Days began to blur into nights. Her room turned into a battlefield of sketches, tracing paper, scale models, and reference books stacked like miniature towers around her desk. Coffee mugs multiplied. Sleep became negotiable. Time lost its edges.
She studied Chicago like a living organism, its arteries, its scars, its forgotten limbs. She pored over maps of abandoned CTA lines, analyzing their placement, their historical relevance, the communities they once served and later abandoned. She read urban policy documents not as theory but as evidence. She watched documentaries, interviewed archived voices, traced demographic shifts, and let data become emotion.
Her intelligence showed not in how fast she worked, but in how deeply she thought.
She didn't rush to design forms; she interrogated purpose. Why should a building exist here? Who was it serving? Who had been ignored for too long? She let those questions guide her pen. Her designs grew organically, shaped by necessity rather than aesthetics alone. Every line had a reason. Every curve spoke. Every material choice argued for sustainability, affordability, and dignity.
She designed modular housing units integrated with vertical urban farms, allowing residents access to fresh food within walking distance, food that didn't require a bus ride across invisible boundaries. She created communal spaces that doubled as cooling centers during heatwaves and shelters during extreme weather. She reimagined the skeletons of old transit lines not as relics but as foundations for renewal.
Her renderings were not just beautiful; they were confrontational.
They said: This is possible.
She refined and refined again, never satisfied, never careless. When something felt easy, she reworked it. When something felt impressive but unnecessary, she removed it. Intelligence, to her, wasn't about complexity, it was about clarity. She wanted the jury to understand her message without explanation, to feel the urgency before reading a single caption.
And through it all, Alex's thoughts began to fade, not because she forced them away, but because there was no room left for them. Her mind was occupied with load calculations, social impact metrics, and environmental resilience strategies. The memories that once intruded now found locked doors. She didn't notice when his name stopped appearing in her thoughts; she only noticed that peace had taken its place.
The project took most of her time—more than she intended, more than she admitted, but she gave it willingly. There was a quiet satisfaction in exhaustion that came from purpose. Her body was tired, but her mind was alive. For the first time in a long while, she wasn't running from something; she was running toward herself.
Mia, her friend, didn't participate.
When Ann mentioned the awards casually one evening, Mia only laughed and waved it off. She said she wanted her life first before doing any project. Said she was tired of deadlines chasing her like creditors. She wanted space. Freedom. Time to enjoy being young without constantly proving something.
Mia was brilliant, Ann knew that. Everyone did. Her brilliance came easily, effortlessly, like breathing. But she wasn't deeply enamoured by academics. She didn't romanticize late nights or intellectual struggle. She didn't tie her worth to achievements or recognition. She lived lighter.
And she had been lucky with boys.
No one had ever broken Mia's heart, not because she guarded it carefully, but because she never handed it over completely. She was the one who broke hearts, often without meaning to. She chased validation, yes, but not commitment. She enjoyed attention without attachment. She didn't really care enough to be wounded deeply.
Ann sometimes wondered what that felt like.
But she didn't envy Mia, not truly. They were different kinds of women, moving through the world with different hungers. Mia chose life first. Ann chose purpose.
And for now, that choice was enough.