A Saturday At The Institute
Country: Aurivelle
City: Auremont
Alvara
Saturday mornings at the institute felt…different.
Not quieter, exactly.
The place was never truly quiet.
There was always the distant hum of sewing machines, the whisper of students sketching late into the night, or the low murmur of conversations drifting through the corridors.
But Saturday carried a softness to it.
No scheduled classes.
No instructors hovering over our shoulders.
Just the gentle reminder that even creativity needed room to breathe.
It had already been a week since we arrived here.
A week that felt both unbelievably fast and strangely long.
My body had slowly started adjusting to the institute’s routine, though I still felt the ache in my muscles from yesterday’s chaos…the runway show, the hours of standing, watching, observing everything like a sponge trying to absorb an entire ocean.
When I woke up that morning, sunlight was already filtering through the large window of my room.
For a moment, I stayed still beneath the sheets, listening to the calm hum of the building waking up around me.
Then I stretched, rolled out of bed, and headed to the bathroom to freshen up.
Cold water against my face instantly chased away the last traces of sleep.
Today was yoga day.
The institute encouraged it on weekends…apparently creativity thrived better in relaxed bodies.
When I returned to my room, I pulled on my gym outfit: a soft fitted top and comfortable leggings designed for movement rather than style.
Just as I was tying my hair up, a knock sounded at my door.
Then another knock.
And then Isabella’s voice followed immediately after.
“Alvara! If you’re still sleeping, I swear we’re leaving you behind!”
I laughed softly, opening the door.
Isabella stood there already dressed for yoga, one hand on her hip, looking dramatically impatient.
Beside her was Mila, calmer as usual, leaning slightly against the wall.
“You two sound like an alarm clock,” I said.
Isabella’s eyes narrowed playfully.
“Correction. We are a very fashionable alarm clock.”
Mila chuckled.
“We waited for you. That should count as kindness.”
“You’re welcome,” Isabella added quickly.
I grabbed my water bottle.
“Let’s go before Isabella starts charging us for patience.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered as we stepped into the hallway together.
The yoga studio was located in the wellness wing of the institute.
Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the morning sunlight to pour in, casting warm golden light across the polished wooden floor.
Students were already scattered across the room on mats.
Some stretching.
Some chatted quietly.
Others simply enjoy the calm start to the day.
The session itself was peaceful.
Slow breathing.
Gentle stretching.
Controlled movements that made my muscles protest at first before slowly relaxing.
By the time the session ended, I felt lighter.
Clearer.
Isabella collapsed dramatically onto her mat beside me.
“I swear my legs have been personally attacked,” she groaned.
Mila laughed.
“It’s yoga, not combat training.”
“Tell that to my muscles.”
I rolled my shoulders, smiling faintly.
For the first time since arriving here, my body actually felt…awake.
Breakfast
After yoga, we headed toward the dining hall.
Saturday mornings meant a slightly later breakfast schedule, and the place buzzed with relaxed conversations and laughter.
We settled by the window, while the kitchen staff served our food.
Isabella immediately attacked her pancakes like someone who had survived a famine.
“You eat like this every day?” Mila asked, watching her in mild horror.
“I burn energy through emotional stress,” Isabella replied seriously.
I raised an eyebrow.
“From what?”
“Being surrounded by talent and competition.”
Mila snorted.
Before we could continue teasing her, conversations from nearby tables drifted toward us.
Most of them…about yesterday’s runway show.
It seemed like the entire institute was still living in that moment.
A group of girls nearby were whispering excitedly.
He looks dangerous. Like the kind of man you ruin your life for and still thank him afterwards.”
?“Do you think he ever laughs? I want to be the reason.”
Another girl sighed dramatically.
“God… imagine being the woman he actually falls in love with.”
He looks like a billionaire villain in a romance novel”
Across the table, someone else said,
“No, no. Forget him for a second. His mother? Marceline Hawthorne is the definition of elegance.”
“I know! The way she spoke during the closing speech…her voice was so smooth.”
“I could listen to her read a grocery list.”
Another voice chimed in from behind us.
“Did anyone notice his brother though?”
“Yes!”
“He’s handsome too, but not in the same terrifying way.”
“Exactly! Grayson is like…dangerously attractive.”
“I heard he runs half the Hawthorne companies already.”
“Half? Try most of them.”
One girl leaned forward conspiratorially.
“If a man like that ever looked at me twice, I’d probably faint.”
Her friend groaned. “Please don’t faint in public. That’s embarrassing.”
Another voice sighed dreamily.
“Still…imagine being the woman he actually wants.”
Isabella slowly turned toward me with the most amused expression imaginable.
“You hear all this?” she whispered.
“I hear it,” I said calmly.
“Half the institute is ready to propose marriage.”
Mila smirked. “And the other half probably already wrote wedding vows.”
I shrugged lightly, focusing on my breakfast.
But inside…
I couldn’t deny something.
People like Grayson Hawthorne didn’t just enter rooms.
They changed the atmosphere.
After breakfast, we headed back to our residential building.
Each building inside the institute had its own luxury laundry area.
Calling it a laundry room felt like an understatement.
The place looked like something from a high-end hotel.
Rows of sleek washers and dryers lined the walls.
Shelves were stocked with gentle detergents and fabric softeners provided by the institute.
There were even steamers and professional irons for delicate fabrics.
Students were responsible for managing their own schedules.
It was the institute’s way of teaching independence.
Freedom…paired with responsibility.
Isabella tossed her laundry bag onto a counter dramatically.
“I refuse to believe rich designers do their own laundry.”
Mila rolled her eyes.
“Welcome to reality.”
I loaded my clothes into a washer.
“You’re just upset because machines don’t fold clothes automatically.”
“Don’t mock my suffering.”
Mila laughed.
“This,is suffering”
Isabella pointed at the machines.
“Laundry is oppression.”
By noon we had already finished lunch.
Then the real work began.
Each student at the institute had their own personal workspace.
Individual rooms designed to give them privacy and focus.
Meaning the three of us couldn’t work together.
We separated at the corridor entrance.
“Four hours,” Isabella groaned.
“Focus,” Mila reminded her.
“Fine.”
I stepped into my own workspace and closed the door behind me.
The room smelled faintly of fabric and fresh paper.
My sketches waited on the table where I had left them the night before.
And just like that…
Time disappeared.
Ideas flowed.
Lines turned into shapes.
Shapes into concepts.
Hours passed without me noticing.
Until finally…
My phone buzzed.
4:00 PM.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms.
Work was done for the day.
When we regrouped outside the studios, Isabella looked like she had survived a war.
“I deserve a medal,” she announced.
“For what?” Mila asked.
“Four hours of discipline.”
I laughed softly.
“Since it’s Saturday,” Mila said, “should we go out?”
Isabella’s eyes lit up instantly.
“Oh yes.”
Students were allowed to leave the institute on weekends.
As long as we returned by 9 PM.
The freedom felt thrilling.
Back in my room, I freshened up and changed my clothes.
My outfit was simple but comfortable:
A pastel lavender long-sleeve top tucked into navy boyfriend jeans,
white sneakers,
a black backpack,
minimal stud earrings,
my hair falling in loose curls,
and natural makeup.
Nothing dramatic.
Just…me.
When I stepped outside, Isabella whistled.
“Well, look at you.”
Mila nodded approvingly.
“Simple but stylish.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Let’s go explore,” Isabella said excitedly.
At the institute gates, security monitored student entries and exits.
We signed our names in the logbook.
Time out: 4:37 PM.
“Back before nine,” the guard reminded us.
“Yes, sir,” Isabella replied cheerfully.
And then…
For the first time since arriving here…
We stepped beyond the gates of the institute.
Into a world completely different from the one we came from.
The city stretched ahead of us, alive and unfamiliar.
And I knew instantly that our day was about to become interesting.