The rhythmic clatter of the train tracks faded into the background as Sara leaned against the window of her apartment, gazing at the city lights. Meeting Dean had stirred something within her—a mix of curiosity and a faint twinge of nostalgia.
As she sipped her cup of tea, her thoughts drifted to the past, to a version of herself she had almost forgotten.
Sara grew up in a small, sunlit house on the outskirts of the city. It wasn't fancy, but it was warm and filled with her mother's laughter and the smell of jasmine that her father planted in the backyard. For the first ten years of her life, Sara thought her world was perfect.
Her father, Ravi, was her hero—a hardworking man with a love for storytelling. He would spin tales of kings and queens, warriors, and dreamers as he tucked Sara into bed every night. Her mother, Meera, was the heart of their home, nurturing and kind, always encouraging Sara to chase her dreams.
"Sara, you're going to be someone special one day," her mother would say, brushing her hair. "Promise me you'll never stop believing in yourself."
Sara believed her.
But life, she learned too early, wasn't as idyllic as the stories her father told.
When Sara turned eleven, the cracks in her parents' marriage became impossible to ignore. The arguments started small—a disagreement over finances, a clash of opinions about Sara's future. But they grew louder and more frequent, echoing through the walls of their little house.
Sara remembered the night everything changed. She was sitting in her room, sketching on a piece of paper. Art had always been her escape, her way of shutting out the noise. But that night, the yelling was impossible to ignore.
"I can't do this anymore, Ravi!" her mother's voice trembled.
"And you think I can?" her father shot back. "Do you know how hard I've worked to keep this family afloat?"
Sara covered her ears, her pencil snapping in her grip. When the shouting stopped, the silence that followed felt even worse.
A week later, her father moved out.
The years that followed were tough. Her mother took on two jobs to make ends meet, leaving little time for laughter or bedtime stories. Sara learned to fend for herself, becoming independent at a young age. She cooked her own meals, did her homework alone, and filled her sketchbooks with drawings of a life she wished she had—a happy family, a cozy home, a garden filled with flowers.
Her relationship with her father became distant. He visited occasionally, but the warmth they once shared had been replaced by awkward small talk. Sara resented him for leaving, though she never said it aloud.
One summer, when she was fifteen, her father tried to reconnect. He took her to an art exhibition, hoping to bond over her love of drawing.
"These paintings remind me of your sketches," he said, his voice tentative.
Sara nodded politely but didn't say much. She wanted to forgive him, to let go of the anger, but the wounds were still fresh.
Despite the chaos at home, Sara excelled in school. Her art teachers noticed her talent and encouraged her to apply to the College of Arts and Commerce. It was a leap of faith, but Sara saw it as her chance to build a life beyond the fractured pieces of her childhood.
Her mother was hesitant at first. "Are you sure this is what you want?" Meera asked, her brows furrowed.
"Yes, Mom," Sara said firmly. "This is my dream."
The day she received her acceptance letter was one of the happiest of her life. Her mother hugged her tightly, tears in her eyes. "I'm so proud of you, Sara."
College was a fresh start, but it wasn't without its challenges. Sara often felt out of place among her peers, who seemed carefree and confident. She kept her head down, focused on her studies and her art.
She made a few friends but struggled to let anyone get too close. Trust didn't come easily to her, not after everything she had been through.
Graduation felt like a victory—a testament to her resilience. But as Sara entered the professional world, she couldn't shake the sense that something was missing.
Sitting in her apartment, Sara traced her finger over the rim of her teacup, lost in thought. Her childhood had shaped her in ways she was still coming to understand. It had taught her to be strong, to persevere, but it had also left her with walls around her heart.
Meeting Dean had been a strange twist of fate. The realization that they had shared the same classroom for years without truly noticing each other felt almost poetic.
For the first time in a long time, Sara wondered if it was possible to let someone in again.
She glanced at the sketchbook on her desk, her mind buzzing with ideas. Picking up her pencil, she began to draw—a train, two figures sitting across from each other, their paths finally crossing.