Day One The Grind Begins
Country: Aurivelle
City:Auremont
Alvara
My alarm buzzed like it had a personal vendetta against me.
I groaned, swatting it off the bedside table, blinking at the pale morning light spilling through the curtains.
Everything felt… quiet. So quiet, it made my heartbeat sound ridiculously loud in my ears.
Yesterday had been… overwhelming.
Unpacking, exploring, staring at my room like it belonged to someone else, meeting the staff, realizing we were actually here.
And now, today, my very second morning at Hawthorne, began with a choice: jogging. Yoga.
Or whatever form of exercise we could convince ourselves to do.
Isabella’s voice buzzed immediately through my phone.
“Up, Alvara! No excuses! I’m not waiting for you!”
I laughed, still half asleep. “Yes, yes. I’m up,” I mumbled, swinging my legs over the bed and feeling the soft carpet under my feet.
The institute had told us yesterday morning exercise was optional but strongly encouraged.
Apparently, with the food they served, skipping it wasn’t even an option if we wanted to survive the week without feeling like blobs.
And this place had everything: a fully furnished gym, yoga pavilions, outdoor jogging tracks, meditation spots.
I didn’t even want to imagine what skipping all of that would do to my energy levels…or my waistline.
I pulled on my gray leggings, a pale pink tank top, tied my hair into a messy bun, grabbed my water bottle, and tiptoed toward the exit.
The air was crisp, fresh with dew, faintly smelling of grass and something that reminded me of early mornings at home.
Isabella was already there, stretching like she’d been awake for hours. She shot me a grin.
“Finally! Took you long enough.”
“I was enjoying my last moments of peace,” I teased, jogging toward her.
We ran side by side, letting the morning warm us up.
Other students were scattered around the courtyard: some jogging, some stretching, some doing yoga moves that made me wonder if they’d been born doing splits.
The place felt alive, almost like it was breathing with us. Even the air seemed polished, like someone had scented it with motivation.
By the time we finished…around thirty minutes…I was sweaty, lungs warm, legs pleasantly tired.
Isabella looked just as winded, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her forehead.
Somehow, I felt… sharper. Ready.
Back in my room, I freshened up and dressed up.
The mirror reflected a girl who felt slightly different, stronger maybe.
Mom wouldn’t recognize me.
Probably not.
We made our way to breakfast, and the dining hall didn’t disappoint.
Staff moved efficiently, placing plates in front of us…no self-service, no waiting, no messing around.
Everything is polished, deliberate.
Smoked salmon on avocado toast, Greek yogurt parfaits with berries and honey drizzle, freshly squeezed orange juice and herbal tea.
I took my first bite and nearly sighed out loud. Perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned, perfectly… everything.
By 9 AM, we were in the classroom.
Massive, high ceilings, sunlight spilling through enormous windows, learning stations for every student.
Each station is fully equipped: chair, desk, mannequin, storage.
I felt a little thrill as I claimed mine…number twelve.
My studio reflected my room number, like the universe was saying, this is yours.
A lady stood at the front, welcoming us again.
Warm smile, firm voice.
“Congratulations on making it here,” she said. “But laziness? Absence? Not tolerated. Anyone here must be up and doing. You’ve earned your place…now it’s time to prove it.”
I nodded, pretending to look serious.
Inside, my heart thumped like a drum. Yep, no room for slacking.
Not here.
She explained that today was Design Concept Day.
Basically, creativity, vision, thinking ahead.
Morning started with fashion history of luxury houses, color theory, textiles, and trend forecasting.
My notebook quickly filled with notes, sketches, little doodles, and exclamations like I did not know that!
Lunch came promptly at noon: grilled chicken Caesar salad, truffle mushroom risotto, sparking water and iced hibiscus tea.
Even lunch felt like a part of the lesson: you weren’t just eating…you were observing, noting, thinking.
After lunch, concept sketching.
Theme given, time limit set, and we were off.
Hand moving automatically, paper filling with ideas, folds, silhouettes, textures.
I leaned over my mannequin, imagining how fabric would drape, how light would bounce, how a seam could tell a story.
Isabella leaned over occasionally, whispering quick tips or critiques.
“Try making the pleats softer here,” she murmured.
I nodded, trying her suggestion.
The fabric in my mind shifted, softening in waves, forming the picture I wanted.
Two to four in the afternoon: mentor critique.
Senior instructors walked among us, eyes sharp, feedback immediate.
Harsh, sometimes cutting, but every word valuable.
One paused at my table, adjusted my sketch.
“Interesting,” she said. “But vision matters. Not just skill.”
Vision.
That word… stuck.
It wasn’t enough to make something look good.
I had to see the story before anyone else did.
Every line, every fold, every choice had to breathe life into the wearer’s story.
Four to five, refinement time.
We polished one design concept to present the next day.
Sweat, ink smudges, laughter when sketches went wrong…but somehow, it felt alive.
I traced a pencil lightly over my paper, imagining how the final dress would flow, imagining the look in a client’s eyes when it came to life.
By six, Isabella and I headed to our personal studios.
Small rooms, fully furnished, everything we could need for sewing, cutting, draping.
Each also has our numbers.
The mannequins stood waiting like silent partners, blank slates for our ideas.
I stepped in, sunlight spilling across the wooden floor.
We spent the next hour cutting, draping, arranging.
Threads tangled, fabrics slipped, sketches spilled across the table, but the energy in the room… alive
.
Laughing when something looked ridiculous, sharing notes quietly, ideas bouncing back and forth.
By 7:30, we cleaned up. Fabrics folded, sketches stacked, mannequins standing tall.
We headed to freshen up before dinner, feeling that familiar gentle vibration of satisfaction after creation.
Dinner was served at eight: seared sea bass with citrus butter, roasted baby vegetables, quinoa pilaf, lemon-infused sparkling water.
The presentation alone made everything feel luxurious, deliberate.
I tasted the food, savoring each bite while thinking about the day’s lessons, the sketches, the fabrics.
Afterward, some students gathered in the lounge, laughing and sharing mistakes or ideas.
Others went to the café for coffee or pastries.
Isabella and I sat briefly, reflecting quietly.
The weight of the day pressed gently on my shoulders, the hum of creativity still buzzing in my head.
By 11 PM, lights out.
I collapsed onto my bed, limbs heavy, heart full, mind racing with new visions.
Tomorrow would be the same: early jog, classes, critiques, assignments, dinner, reflections.
Six months of hard work stretched ahead.
Long hours.
Intense criticism.
Growth, mistakes, learning, sweat, laughter, exhaustion.
And for the first time… I felt ready.
I exhaled, letting the silence of the campus wrap around me. This was only the beginning.