My fingers inch toward the keyboard. I stare at the box prompting me to declare my major. And it stares back at me.

I blink, groaning in defeat.

Despite all the pros, every time I try to make myself choose economics, I feel like I’m making a bad decision. The idea still tastes as bland as ever. And I can’t help but wonder if... If I had what it takes to pursue my family’s legacy, would I?

Neither Mom nor Grandma saw me as their successor. Maybe they never saw potential in me. I bet all they saw was my cooking curse. And they knew I better find a career for myself elsewhere.

But if I had what it takes to follow in my family’s footsteps, what would I be doing now? Would I be sitting in front of this college application? Or would I be interested in studying cooking, like Pedro? The thought is so far from my reality, I can’t help but chuckle. Me? Going to culinary school...? I shake my head.

I pull up the Gastronomic Society’s website like I’m trying to prove a point to myself. This was never meant for me. I tell myself it’s just a joke at first, like playing pretend. Like mashing flowers together and calling it soup. But the moment it loads, I know I can’t go back to the economics application waiting behind the web browser.

My eyes scan all the photos of the different classrooms, students in aprons, kitchens packed with delicious ingredients, teachers celebrating their restaurants’ success, Michelin stars... And a simmering starts in my heart.

I frown, noticing this doesn’t feel new.

It was there when I was a toddler sneaking into the kitchen. It was there as a kid, as I played with my flower recipes. It was there the day Grandma died and I stood alone at the stove. And it was there the moment I started at the cooking club, this feeling that quickly envelops my whole chest with warmth.

I let it reach every part of my body this time.

I let it guide me.

I move the cursor across the screen toward the application form, and it’s both scary and exciting at the same time, like the breathless moment before a roller coaster drops—

A hand on my shoulder startles me. I turn to see Cintia. “I didn’t know you were here,” I say, mentally kicking myself for forgetting Cintia’s been practically living in the library lately.

I hate that I was hiding from her, too, slipping back to my loner days. I search her face for any signs that she knows about my near kiss with Pedro. But Cintia just sits down at the computer to my right, giving me a playful warning glance.

“Don’t run away,” she says.

“I wasn’t...planning to.” I hear the hesitation in my voice.