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My dream is not one big explosion of a dream — it's more like a quiet, stubborn light I keep walking toward. I want to see the world, properly, not through a screen. I dream of interrailing through Europe with a too-heavy backpack and a too-small budget, ing on night trains, getting lost in cities whose languages I don't speak, and learning that I can handle more than I thought. Beyond travel, I dream of doing work that feels like mine — something creative, something where I get to think and make and notice, rather than just perform. I'd love to write, or photograph, or build things with my hands, or maybe all three in some messy combination that only makes sense later. I dream of a small apartment with too many plants and a window that gets morning sun, where friends drop by unannounced and stay for tea. And underneath all of it, I dream of becoming someone I'm proud of — than I am now, braver than I feel, someone who kept her curiosity when it would have been easier