The days passed like a slow tide, each one pulling me further into this second chance at life. I knew what I wanted to do, but saying it and doing it were two entirely different things.

At home, the expectations loomed like storm clouds. My parents, proud and meticulous, wanted what they had always wanted: a son who followed a path of certainty and success. Engineering, medicine, or law—those were the acceptable options. Baking, to them, wasn’t even worth considering.

It wasn’t that they were unkind. They had supported me in their own way, pushing me to achieve more, to rise higher. But they didn’t understand that their idea of support felt more like a noose tightening around my neck.

---

One evening, over dinner, I decided it was time to test the waters.

“So,” I began, trying to sound casual as I poked at my rice. “I’ve been thinking about what I might want to do after high school.”

My father glanced up from his plate, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Good. It’s about time you started focusing on that. The application deadlines for engineering programs are coming up.”

I cleared my throat. “Actually, I was thinking about something different.”

Mom looked up too, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “Different? What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about culinary school,” I said, bracing myself for their reaction.

For a moment, the only sound was the clink of my father’s fork against his plate.

“Culinary school?” he repeated, his tone carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve always loved baking, and I think it’s something I could really excel at.”

Dad leaned back in his chair, his expression hardening. “Erik, baking is fine as a hobby, but it’s not a career. You need to think about your future. A real future.”

“It is a real future,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “There are plenty of successful bakers out there. It’s something I’m passionate about, and I think I could—”

“Passion doesn’t pay the bills,” Dad interrupted, his tone sharp. “Do you have any idea how competitive that industry is? How hard it is to make a living? You’re throwing away your potential for something that isn’t practical.”

Mom reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “Let him explain, James.”

Dad sighed but didn’t say anything more, his jaw tight.

I swallowed hard, my appetite gone. “I know it’s not the safest choice,” I said carefully. “But I’ve thought about it a lot. I don’t want to spend my life doing something that makes me miserable just because it’s stable.”

“And what about your family?” Dad asked, his voice softer but no less firm. “We’ve worked hard to give you every opportunity. We just want what’s best for you.”

“I know,” I said. “And I appreciate that. But this is something I need to do for myself.”

The conversation ended on a tense note, and I knew I hadn’t convinced them. But I had planted the seed.

---

At school, I found myself drawn more and more to the idea of entering the baking competition. It was a small event, nothing grand, but it felt like a tangible step toward my goal.

I spent most afternoons practicing in the kitchen, experimenting with recipes and techniques. Each success—a perfectly golden loaf of bread, a batch of cookies that melted in your mouth—felt like a small victory.

One day, as I was sketching ideas for the competition, Mark dropped into the seat next to mine.

“You’ve been weirdly busy lately,” he said, stealing a fry from my tray. “What’s going on with you?”

“Just working on something,” I said vaguely.

Mark squinted at me. “You’re not secretly building a robot or something, are you? Because if you are, I want in.”

I laughed. “No robots. It’s… baking, actually.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Baking? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve always been into it, but I’m thinking about taking it more seriously now.”

Mark tilted his head, studying me like I’d grown a second head. “Huh. I guess I can see it. You’ve always been kind of a perfectionist, and baking’s all about precision, right?”

“Something like that,” I said, smiling faintly.

“Well, good for you, man,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Chase your dreams and all that. Just don’t forget us little people when you’re rich and famous.”

---

In the weeks leading up to the competition, I started to see more of Celine.

We had agreed to team up, though her reluctance had been obvious at first. She was guarded, hesitant to share too much, but slowly, she began to open up.

One afternoon, as we sat in the library working on a menu for the competition, she surprised me by pulling out her notebook.

“I had an idea,” she said, flipping to a page filled with doodles and notes.

The page was a chaotic mix of recipes, sketches, and little comments scribbled in the margins.

“This is amazing,” I said, leaning closer. “You came up with all this?”

She nodded, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks. “It’s just brainstorming. I don’t know if any of it will work.”

“I think it’s brilliant,” I said sincerely.

Her eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, she looked like she didn’t know how to respond.

“Thanks,” she said softly, her lips curving into a small smile.

---

As the competition drew closer, I found myself looking forward to it more than I had expected. It wasn’t just about the baking anymore. It was about proving to myself—and to everyone else—that I could take control of my life.

This was my first step.