Chapter 1: The Beginning of the Story

Sara's heart thudded against her chest, as if her very soul was breaking into pieces. The argument with her mother had escalated to an unbearable point, each word cutting deeper than the last. The walls of their small house, once filled with laughter and warmth, now echoed with the bitter sounds of disappointment.

"You don't understand, Mom!"

Sara's voice trembled with frustration; her fists clenched at her sides.

"Fashion design isn't a dream-it's what I am. It's what I'm meant to do."

Her mother's face hardened, her lips curling into a frown.

"You think you're going to make a living designing clothes, Sara? You need to get your head out of the clouds and think about reality. You should be studying IT, like your brother. A job with a steady salary, a normal life, not this silly fantasy of yours. Fashion design is nothing but a childish pipe dream!"

Sara recoiled at her mother's words, feeling a sharp pang in her chest.

Her mother had always been practical-too practical, maybe. Always focusing on the logical, the safe path. She couldn't understand Sara's passion, her deep, unwavering desire to create. To design. To bring beauty into the world with her hands.

"I won't do it, Mom!" Sara shouted, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

"I can't live a life that isn't mine. I'm not going to follow the path you want for me. I will be a fashion designer, no matter what you say." In that moment, Sara felt an overwhelming surge of defiance.

You're being stubborn, Sara!" Sara's Mother snapped, her voice rising. "Do you think life is a fairytale? That you can just dream something and make it happen? Do you know how many people fail in the fashion industry? How many end up broke and struggling?"

"And do you know how many succeed?" Sara shot back, her voice shaking. "People who fought for what they loved, who refused to give up just because the odds were against them! I'm willing to work hard. I'm willing to struggle. But at least it will be for something I love, not some job that makes me miserable."

Sara's mother scoffed, shaking her head. "You're too young to understand what real life is like. You think passion is enough? It isn't. Money, stability, security—those are what matter. Not some silly dream you'll regret in five years."

Sara's fists clenched. "I won't regret it. I'd rather fail doing something I love than succeed in something that kills me inside!"

Her mother's face darkened. "That's enough, Sara. You will not disrespect me in my own house."

"Then stop disrespecting me!" Sara cried. "Stop treating my dreams like they mean nothing! Like I mean nothing!"

She had made up her mind, and no amount of criticism could change it. But her mother didn't see it that way. Her hand moved so quickly that Sara didn't even have time to flinch. A sharp slap landed across her cheek, the sting lingering like an open wound. The room spun, and for a moment, Sara was frozen, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Her mother's face softened in a mix of regret and anger.

"You don't know how hard life is, Sara. You think this is easy? You think you can just follow some silly dream and expect it to work out? "Sara pressed her palm against her stinging cheek, her throat tightening with the bitter taste of unshed tears.

"I never expected it to be easy," she whispered. "But I expected you to believe in me. Just a little."

For a moment, her mother was silent. Then she sighed, her voice cold. "You'll understand one day. When reality hits you and you realize how foolish you've been."

Sara swallowed back her tears. "Maybe. But if that day comes, at least I'll know I tried."

This wasn't the first time her mother had struck her, but it never hurt any less. She had always been the 'wild one' in the family, the one who didn't follow the rules, the one who wanted more. Her mother, always the realist, never understood that.

Without another word, Sara turned and fled to her room, locking the door behind her. She sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands as sobs wracked her body. The world felt too heavy to bear, too cold and indifferent. Why couldn't they just see her? Why couldn't they understand what she needed, what she was meant to do? The tears flowed freely, hot and relentless.

She cried for the dream that seemed so out of reach, for the pain of never being good enough in her mother's eyes, for the frustration of not being able to express herself the way she longed to. Her chest ached with a quiet, unbearable sadness, and after a while, the tears slowed, leaving Sara empty and hollow.

She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt and looked around the room. Her gaze fell on the paper cutter lying innocently on her desk. A thought crossed her mind, like a dark cloud rolling in. Maybe, just maybe, the pain inside would be easier to bear if she could release it physically. Her hand trembled as she reached for the cutter, the cold metal surface sending a shiver through her fingertips. She stared at it for a long moment, her thoughts swirling in a haze of self-loathing and desperation.

The weight of her mother's words, the crushing disappointment, the endless feeling of not being enough-it was all too much. But before she could do anything, a sharp sensation tugged at her nose. She reached up instinctively and felt a thin trickle of blood. It was a strange sensation, like her body was trying to tell her something, to snap her out of the spiral she had begun to descend into. Sara stood there, frozen for a moment, watching the blood slowly drip from her nose. It wasn't much, but it was enough to pull her out of the fog of her mind. She wiped it away and stared at the red stain on her tissue, unsure of what had just happened. A strange feeling washed over her, a kind of clarity. She was not as broken as she had thought.

There was something inside her, something that told her to hold on, to wait. Her thoughts began to quiet, and the urge to hurt herself faded away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Without another thought, Sara dropped the paper cutter back onto the desk and stumbled back to her bed. She collapsed under the covers, her body heavy with weariness, and closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered before falling into a fitful sleep was the dull ache in her chest and the quiet whisper in her mind:

You don't have to be perfect. Just hold on.

The next morning, Sara woke up late. The sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. She felt groggy, her body heavy from the lack of sleep. The events of the previous night felt like a distant memory, but the weight of them lingered in her chest. She dragged herself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. But as soon as she opened the fridge, her stomach sank. There was nothing. No food, no comfort, just an empty void. Sara's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.

It was a Saturday, and her parents had already left for the store. They owned a small business, a little shop where they sold everything from groceries to household goods. Sara had never been close with her parents, at least not in the way she needed. They had their work, and she had her dreams-dreams that seemed increasingly impossible in the face of their disapproval.

Her brother wasn't home either. They didn't get along, not really. Their relationship was strained at best and today was no exception. Sara had long given up on trying to connect with him. With nothing else to do, Sara wandered over to her father's desk and picked up his phone. It was a habit of hers, one she had developed over time. Her father had always been a source of comfort, even though he often sided with her mother. Still, he was a quiet presence in her life, someone who loved her in his own way.

Before she could unlock the phone, a soft whimper caught her attention. She turned to see her dog, Luffy, sitting by the doorway, his tail wagging hesitantly.

"Hey, boy," she murmured, kneeling down as he padded over. "Guess it's just us, huh?"

Luffy licked her hand, then nudged his head against her chest, letting out a low whine.

Sara smiled weakly, running her fingers through his fur. "You always know when I'm feeling down, don't you?"

Luffy let out a short bark, then trotted over to his empty food bowl, giving her an expectant look.

"Right. Food first," she chuckled, pushing herself up. "You're the only one I can count on, you know that?"

Luffy barked again, tail wagging harder.

As she moved to feed him, a warmth settled in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as alone as she thought.

..............................

Sara unlocked the phone and opened up a storytelling website she had come across in her spare time. The list of stories seemed endless, but one caught her eye-a title called Dandelion. It was simple, but something about it drew her in. Without much thought, Sara began to read. 

...............................

The wind carried the tiny seeds of the dandelion across the sky, scattering them far beyond the cracked pavement where it had grown. Laila knelt beside it, brushing her fingers over the delicate stem.

"You're just like me," she whispered. "Growing where no one thought you could."

Her grandfather chuckled from the porch; his voice soft but knowing. "Dandelions are stubborn little things. People call them weeds, but they don't realize how strong they are."

Laila looked up. "But they get stepped on, pulled out, thrown away."

"And yet, they come back," he said with a smile. "No matter how many times the world tries to get rid of them."

Laila swallowed the lump in her throat, staring at the golden flower before her. Maybe, just maybe, she could be like that too.

...............................

The hours slipped away unnoticed. She didn't care that she was hungry, didn't care that she had skipped lunch. All that mattered was the story, the words that felt like they were written for her. Dandelion was a tale of resilience, of finding beauty in the broken, of daring to dream even when the world seemed too harsh. Sara read until the sun began to set, her stomach growling with hunger. When her parents came home, they ate in silence, and Sara could barely find the energy to join them. Afterward, she wandered back to the kitchen, where she found a small portion of leftover food. It wasn't much, but it was enough to quiet the hunger that gnawed at her.

As she ate, something caught her eye. The author of Dandelion had left her business number in case anyone wanted to purchase a physical copy of the book. Sara didn't think twice. In a moment of impulsive connection, she sent a message

"Your story is beautiful. Can we be friends?"

It was a simple message, but it was the first time in a long while that Sara felt like she was reaching out, like there was something worth holding onto.

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