Johnny and Dora met in college. They lived a pretty mediocre life — nothing glamorous, just hard work, frugal meals, and quiet Sunday mornings. They got married at 28. Had you at 29. You were their only child. The golden one. The one who made them proud.

You were polite, smart, obedient. A good student with even better grades. You didn’t fight, didn’t stray, didn’t dream too loud. Not out of fear — but because you knew how hard your parents worked to keep your world steady. You didn’t want to risk it.

But something inside you kept pulling.

While your friends talked about coding and college placements, you were watching actors cry on stage and whispering lines to your reflection. You never cared for circuits or calculus. You cared about characters. Monologues. Emotion.

Now high school’s over. You graduated top of your class. Your parents are expecting engineering applications, placement exams, the next step in their version of your life.

But you’re about to shatter all of it.

You want to be an actor.

And for the first time, you’re not asking for permission.