The hum of sewing machines echoed through the student design studio like a mechanical heartbeat. Fabric scraps littered the floor, pins shimmered under the fluorescent lights, and the faint scent of glue mixed with coffee filled the air.
Liang Mei stared at her mannequin, frustration brewing in her chest.
Her concept — "Linhai Layers", a multi-textured coat designed to reflect the contrast of old and new in the city — looked good on paper. But now, pinned together with trembling hands, it felt… off.
Too bulky. Too quiet.
Too safe.
She was two weeks away from the annual Rising Threads Student Fashion Showcase — the biggest event for her university. All her professors, peers, even brand scouts would be there. And she was finally one of the featured designers.
And yet…
She hated it.
"Why are you breathing like that?" asked Lulu, her roommate and fellow designer, without looking up from her digital sketchpad.
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to set the place on fire or cry into a spool of thread."
Liang groaned. "This design is nothing. It's just layers. It doesn't say anything."
"It's urban. It's functional. It's clean."
"It's boring."
Lulu looked up now. "Mei, you've been up for 28 hours straight. Drink some water. Then cry into your thread."
Mei half-laughed, half-collapsed in her chair.
Later that night, she opened her design account on Weixin to post a draft of the coat, asking her 1,200 followers for feedback. Just a sketch. Nothing serious.
The next morning, she woke up to over 14,000 likes.
And hundreds of comments.
"This is what the city feels like.""I would wear this in a heartbeat.""It's like... armor.""Why do I feel like crying?"
She blinked, scrolling through the messages.
One caught her breath:
"You've stitched something I've never had words for."
By the time she arrived at campus, people were already whispering.
One professor stopped her in the hallway and said, "Your post — quite striking. Keep pushing."
She should've felt proud.
Instead, doubt clawed its way in.
Why this piece? It was the one she hated. The one she almost scrapped. The one that didn't feel like her best work.
So what did that say about her?
That night, she sat alone in her dorm, staring at the unfinished coat.
She didn't feel like a designer.
She felt like a fluke.
Then she picked up the nearest fabric she had — a dull piece of linen no one touched — and began cutting. Not for class. Not for a show.
Just to feel like herself again.