The next three days felt like a blur.
Yuki locked herself in the design studio, surrounded by fabric swatches, color palettes, and mood boards that covered every available surface. Isla brought her meals, which mostly went untouched. The pressure to deliver wasn't just professional anymore—it was personal.
"You don't have to do this alone," Isla said softly, setting down a plate of sandwiches that would probably go cold like the others.
Yuki didn't look up from her tablet. "I do. The committee trusted me with this role. I cannot fail twice."
"You didn't fail," Isla insisted. "The class just wanted options. That's not failure—that's democracy."
Yuki finally paused, her exhaustion evident in the shadows under her eyes. "In my culture, bringing shame to a collective effort is... it weighs heavily."
Isla sat beside her, looking at the sketches scattered across the table. "Then let me help carry it."
Yuki met her eyes, and something softened. "You would do that?"
"We're a team, aren't we?" Isla said with a small smile.
For the first time in days, Yuki smiled back.
Day Two – Auditions
The performing arts center buzzed with nervous energy. Students lined the hallways, running through vocal warm-ups, adjusting instruments, stretching in corners. The auditions for reception performances had drawn over forty hopefuls.
Dante sat in the front row of the auditorium, clipboard in hand, grinning like he was judging a talent show. Beside him, Amara sat with perfect posture, her expression neutral but her pen poised like a weapon.
"Remember," Amara said without looking at him, "we're looking for polish. Technical skill. Stage presence."
"I remember," Dante replied. "But we're also looking for heart. You can't teach that."
"You can't graduate on heart alone," Amara muttered.
The first act took the stage—a girl from the Tokyo branch with a violin. Her performance was flawless, technically perfect, each note precise and controlled. When she finished, the room applauded politely.
Dante made a note. "Solid. Professional."
Amara nodded. "Approved."
The second act was a boy from the UK branch with a guitar, playing an original song. His voice cracked once, and he fumbled a chord change, but the emotion in his lyrics was raw and genuine. When he finished, the room was silent for a beat, then erupted in applause.
Dante grinned. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
Amara frowned. "He made mistakes."
"He made the audience feel something," Dante countered. "That's more important."
"Not if we look unprofessional."
"Not if we look robotic," Dante shot back.
They stared each other down until Tariq, sitting behind them, cleared his throat. "Perhaps we create two categories? Technical excellence and emotional impact. Select a balance of both."
Dante and Amara exchanged a look, then reluctantly nodded.
By the end of the day, they'd selected eight acts—a mix of Dante's heart-driven choices and Amara's technically flawless picks. It wasn't perfect harmony, but it was progress.
Day Three – Theme Presentation Redux
The committee gathered early in the morning, all ten members present despite the ungodly hour. Yuki stood at the front, her tablet connected to the projector, Isla beside her for support.
"We've prepared three comprehensive theme options," Yuki began, her voice steady despite the nerves. "Each distinct, each viable."
The first theme appeared on screen.
Option One: Ascension
Bold golds and deep blacks, sharp geometric patterns, and dramatic lighting concepts. Modern, striking, unapologetically ambitious.
"This theme emphasizes upward momentum," Yuki explained. "Rising above challenges, reaching new heights. It's designed for those who wanted edge."
Dante nodded approvingly. "Now we're talking."
Option Two: Convergence
Blues, silvers, and whites blending seamlessly, representing the coming together of five branches into one unified moment. Clean, sophisticated, harmonious.
"This celebrates unity," Isla added. "Five distinct paths meeting at a single point—graduation."
Elias leaned forward. "I like this. It's elegant without being safe."
Option Three: Legacy in Bloom (Revised)
The original concept, but elevated. Deeper greens, brighter golds, with added elements of light installation and floral projection mapping that would transform the Conservatory into a living artwork.
"We heard the feedback," Yuki said. "This version maintains the core concept but adds technological innovation and visual spectacle."
The room fell silent as everyone absorbed the options.
Astrid spoke first. "These are all exceptional. The class will have real choices now."
"We need to narrow it to two for the vote," Celeste said. "Committee majority decides which two move forward."
"I vote Ascension and Convergence," Dante said immediately. "Forget the garden party."
"Legacy in Bloom revised deserves a shot," Mabelle argued. "Yuki and Isla put so much work into refining it."
"Sentimentality isn't strategy," Amara said. "Ascension and Convergence are stronger."
Zion, who'd been quiet, finally spoke. "Legacy in Bloom revised and Convergence. Give them the refined original alongside something completely different. Let the class decide if they want evolution or revolution."
The room considered this.
"Vote," Astrid said. "Ascension and Convergence?"
Four hands. Dante, Amara, Elias, Tariq.
"Legacy revised and Convergence?"
Six hands. Zion, Mabelle, Celeste, Isla, Yuki, Astrid.
"Motion passes," Astrid declared. "We present these two to the class tomorrow."
Yuki exhaled, relief washing over her features.
That Afternoon – Speech Writing Session
Mabelle sat in the library's private study room, her laptop open to a document titled "UK Branch Representative Speech – Draft 7."
She'd written and deleted the opening paragraph at least twenty times.
A knock on the door. Zion entered, holding two coffee cups.
"Thought you might need this," he said, setting one beside her.
"You're a lifesaver," Mabelle said, taking a grateful sip. "How's your speech coming?"
Zion sat across from her, his own laptop open but blank. "It's not."
"Same."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"What do you think people want to hear?" Zion asked.
Mabelle considered this. "The truth, I think. Not some sanitized version of our time here. They want to know we struggled, that we survived, that we became something more than we were."
Zion nodded slowly. "But how do you talk about struggle without sounding bitter? How do you acknowledge the darkness without letting it define you?"
"You focus on what you learned from it," Mabelle said. "The Kevin situation—it changed you. But it also taught you things about yourself. About resilience, about consequences, about the cost of revenge."
"You think I should mention Kevin?" Zion asked, surprised.
"Not by name," Mabelle said carefully. "But the experience. Own it. Show them you grew from it."
Zion stared at his blank screen, then started typing. Slowly at first, then faster.
Mabelle smiled and turned back to her own speech, the words finally beginning to flow.
Evening – Dorm Common Room
Mikey sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his phone while Celeste organized note cards on the coffee table.
"You know what's wild?" Mikey said. "In two months, we won't be here anymore."
Celeste paused. "Don't start with that existential stuff. I'm trying to focus."
"I'm serious though. Where do you think you'll be this time next year?"
Celeste set down her cards, considering. "University, probably. Maybe Edinburgh. Maybe London. I haven't decided."
"What about us?" Mikey asked, his voice quieter.
Celeste looked at him, her expression softening. "What about us?"
"I don't want this to end," Mikey admitted. "Whatever this is."
Celeste moved to sit beside him, taking his hand. "It doesn't have to. People make long distance work all the time."
"Do they though?" Mikey asked. "Or do they just pretend until it falls apart?"
"We're not most people," Celeste said firmly. "We'll figure it out."
Mikey pulled her closer. "Promise?"
"Promise," she whispered, kissing him softly.
Across the room, Isla sat curled in an armchair, sketching in her notebook. She'd started drawing again—something she'd abandoned after Lucian. The pencil felt good in her hand, the lines appearing on paper like proof she was still capable of creating something.
Nyra appeared in the doorway, hesitating before entering.
"Mind if I join?" she asked quietly.
Isla looked up, surprised. Nyra had been absent from most social situations since Kevin's expulsion, retreating back into her comfortable invisibility.
"Of course," Isla said, gesturing to the empty chair.
Nyra sat, pulling out a book but not opening it.
"How are you?" Isla asked.
Nyra considered the question. "Lighter. For the first time in two years, I feel like I can breathe."
Isla smiled. "I'm glad."
"And you?" Nyra asked. "After Lucian?"
Isla's hand stilled on the page. "Getting there. Some days are harder than others."
Nyra nodded. "That's normal. Healing isn't linear."
They sat in comfortable silence, two people who understood what it meant to survive someone else's cruelty.
Late Night – Zion's Penthouse
Zion sat on his balcony, the city sprawling below, his laptop balanced on his knees. The speech was half-written, the cursor blinking expectantly.
His phone buzzed. A message from his father.
Father: Heard you're valedictorian. Well done. Your mother and I will attend the ceremony. We expect you to represent the family name appropriately.
No "proud of you." No warmth. Just expectations.
Zion stared at the message, then set his phone aside.
He returned to his speech, typing the words that had been stuck in his throat for weeks.
"We came to Goldridge as individuals—ambitious, competitive, isolated in our own pursuits of excellence. We leave as something different. Not perfect. Not without scars. But stronger for having survived together."
He paused, then continued.
"This year taught me that winning at any cost isn't winning at all. That the greatest battles aren't against others, but against the parts of ourselves we're afraid to confront."
The words poured out, raw and honest, until the speech was no longer just a requirement but a reckoning.
When he finally finished, the sun was beginning to rise.
Zion saved the document, closed his laptop, and allowed himself to feel something he hadn't in months.
Hope.