Liang Mei sat cross-legged on the floor of her dorm room, surrounded by fabric scraps, tangled measuring tape, and half-finished sketches that looked more like war plans than fashion designs.
Her fingers ached from pinning and stitching all night, but the adrenaline kept her from noticing. The deadline for her class project was at noon, and she still hadn't figured out how to attach the final sleeve.
On the bed behind her, her roommate snored softly, oblivious to the chaos.
Liang Mei sighed and checked the time: 8:03 a.m.
Four hours left.
She picked up her prototype dress — a deep navy piece inspired by old Hanfu silhouettes with modern lines. It was meant to represent duality — tradition and rebellion, softness and strength. Her instructor had rolled his eyes when she explained it last week.
"You think too much," he'd said. "Fashion is movement, not meaning."
But she couldn't separate the two. Not when her whole life had been stitched together from scraps — her father's silence, her mother's strict hopes, her own quiet resistance. Everything had to mean something, or what was the point?
By 9:30, she was done.
Or done enough.
She changed into a simple black jumpsuit, tied her hair back, and carried the dress in a garment bag across campus. Rain had stopped, but the air was damp with leftover sadness. The city felt like it was still wringing itself dry.
Her classroom smelled like fabric glue and nerves.
Fifteen students. One intimidating panel. Three minutes each.
When it was her turn, she stood tall — even though her voice trembled.
"This design is called 'Returning Sky.' It's about the tension between identity and expectation — something I think a lot of us carry. I've used traditional drape work and modern fabric to show contrast."
Silence.
Then one of the judges — a visiting alum and designer from Shanghai — leaned forward.
"It's clean. Not loud. But it speaks."
Liang Mei blinked. "Thank you."
The others murmured approval. Even her instructor gave a rare nod.
Outside, after it was over, she stood near the fountain and stared at the rippling surface. She felt oddly empty. Like she'd just yelled into a canyon and now had nothing left to say.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
Hey. This is Chen Hao. I just wanted to say thanks again… for that night. Hope you're okay.
She smiled.
I am now.
That night, in her dorm, she pulled out a new sketchpad and scribbled something she hadn't dared to before:
"One day, I will have my own label."
She underlined it twice.
Then she fell asleep with the pen still in her hand.