She stood on the grand stage, her heart pounding in rhythm with the applause that echoed through the massive hall. The golden spotlights shone down on her, illuminating the sheer elegance of the moment. Her name had just been announced—"Clara Williams, Best Designer of the Year!"
Clara could hardly believe it. Out of thirty countries, out of hundreds of talented designers, she was the one standing here, accepting the most prestigious award of her career. Dressed in one of her own creations—a breathtaking gown of midnight blue silk with intricate silver embroidery—she felt like she was walking inside a dream.
The announcer, a renowned fashion critic, smiled warmly as he handed her the gleaming trophy. "Clara, your designs have mesmerized the world. Your vision, creativity, and passion have set a new standard in the fashion industry."
Tears pricked at her eyes as she took the microphone. The audience—icons, celebrities, and designers she had admired for years—watched her with admiration. She took a deep breath and spoke, her voice steady despite the overwhelming emotions.
"I've dreamed of this moment for as long as I can remember. Fashion is not just about clothes—it's about telling a story, making people feel confident, empowered, and beautiful. To be recognized on such a grand stage is beyond anything I ever imagined."
A wave of applause erupted, and the flashes of cameras sparkled like stars around her. She turned towards the front row, where her parents sat, pride and joy shining in their eyes. They had supported her through every late-night sketching session, every challenge, every doubt.
Just then, the lights flickered, and the sound of clapping started fading. The golden stage, the shining faces, the trophy in her hands—all of it blurred like watercolor on a canvas.
And then—she woke up.
Clara gasped, sitting upright in bed. Her heart was still racing, her fingers still curled as if clutching the trophy. She blinked, adjusting to the dim glow of her room. A dream. It had all been a dream.
But as she looked around at the sketches covering her walls, the sewing machine sitting by her desk, and the half-finished gown draped over the chair, a smile formed on her lips.
One day, that dream would be real. And when it was, she would stand on that stage, not as a dreamer, but as the designer the world had been waiting for.
As the day unfolded with effortless grace. The morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room as she stirred awake. There was no rush, no urgency—only the quiet hum of a world waking up alongside her. She stretched, savoring the gentle stillness before stepping into the day.
With a warm cup of tea cradled in her hands, she breathed in its soothing aroma, letting its warmth settle within her. Every movement was unhurried, each action deliberate yet natural. As she stepped outside of the dream, a cool breeze danced around her through the window, rustling the leaves and carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers.
Conversations flowed smoothly, laughter echoed like soft music, and even the most ordinary moments carried a quiet elegance. There was beauty in the way sunlight played across her fingertips, in the rhythmic footsteps she took along a quiet path, in the simple joy of being present.
POV of Clara- I sit on the edge of my bed, my heart still racing from the dream. I can still hear the applause, feel the weight of the trophy in my hands, see the golden lights shining down on me. But as I blink and look around my tiny studio, reality comes crashing back. The scattered sketches, the half-finished gowns, the endless piles of fabric—this is where I am right now.
I let out a deep breath, running a hand through my hair. "That wasn't just a dream. That was a sign."
I stand up and start pacing, my mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. "I saw myself winning. I felt it. If I can dream it so vividly, that means I can make it real."
I turn to my vision board, my eyes landing on the words I wrote years ago: "You will be great." I trace the letters with my fingers, a surge of determination rising in my chest. "No. I am going to be great."
I grab my sketchbook, flipping to a fresh page. No more waiting. No more doubting. The perfect moment isn't some far-off dream—it's now.
I sit at my desk, pencil in hand, and start sketching. Because this isn't just a dream anymore.
This is my future, and I'm ready to make it happen.
Clara stood in front of her mirror, adjusting the sleek black blazer over her tailored ivory blouse. Tonight was the night. This meeting—this collaboration—was the final step. If she impressed the biggest fashion house in Verona, the Best Designer of the Year award would be hers.
She took a deep breath, smoothing out the fabric of her blazer. "Okay, Clara. This is it. No nerves, no doubts. You've worked for this."
She picked up her pearl earrings, fastening them while watching her reflection. Her hands were steady, but her mind was racing.
"This is the company that could change everything. One deal, one collection, and my name will be everywhere." She tilted her head, studying herself in the mirror. "But why wouldn't they choose me? My designs are fresh, my vision is strong, and I know what people want."
Clara took a step back, grabbing her clutch. Her fingers traced the edge of her notebook—the one filled with concepts, color palettes, and designs she had poured her heart into.
"Breathe. Be confident. You're not just hoping for this—you're earning it."
She turned to her reflection one last time. Her dark brown eyes burned with determination. "If they say yes, that award is mine. And if they don't? No. They will."
Grabbing her things, she took a deep breath and stepped out the door. Tonight, she wasn't just chasing a dream—she was making it reality.
As evening arrived, the sky melted into shades of pink and lavender, a delicate farewell to a day well spent. Clara sighed contentedly, embracing the serenity around her. In the stillness of the night, she found comfort—grateful for a day that had been as beautiful as it had been effortless.
Just as she reached for her clutch, her phone buzzed. The name on the screen made her pause.
Him.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. A part of her wanted to ignore it—not now, not before something this important—but she knew she couldn't. She swiped to answer.
"Hey," she said softly, trying to keep her voice light.
"Where have you been?" His voice was sharp, laced with something unreadable. "I called you earlier."
She exhaled, already feeling the weight of the conversation before it had even begun. "I was getting ready. I have my meeting tonight, remember?"
Silence.
Then, a low, unimpressed chuckle. "Right. Your 'big' moment."
Her jaw tightened. "Yes, my big moment. This could secure my award. You know how much this means to me."
"And what about me?" His tone was quieter now, but no softer. "Do I mean anything to you anymore?"
The words sent a sharp pang through her chest. "Why are you saying this now?" she asked, keeping her voice steady. "You know how hard I've worked for this."
A sigh came through the line, slow and deliberate. "You used to have time for me. Now, it's just your career, your dreams."
Clara closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. "You don't understand."
"No, Clara. I do." His voice dropped, something unreadable lingering in his tone. "I just wonder if you'll still have anything left once you've won."
The call ended.
She stared at the screen, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. A war raged inside her—love, doubt, frustration, and the ache of knowing that somehow, he always made her feel like she was choosing.
~Who was Him? What happened after the call ended? Did she attend the meeting? Will she able to have collaboration? What is the company name with whom she wanted to collaborate ? Will she able to get that award?
~Stay tuned to have answers of these questions~