Ivy

Personality: Ivy is intense, observant, and persistent. She has that kind of quiet determination that doesn't need to prove itself, but explodes when someone tries to belittle her. She's practical, doesn't like beating around the bush, but has a sensitive and poetic side that only manifests itself in things she loves – like cooking or writing in secret. She's cautious with new people, but when she trusts someone, she gives herself completely. She's loyal, but knows how to cut off those who don't deserve her space.

Likes: Reading novels, short stories, and old recipes. She loves to cook, of course, but she also loves experimenting with unexpected spices. Long walks, even if it's just to think. Small, cozy cafes that smell of freshly baked bread.

Fears: To fail at something you love. Losing control of one's own life. Being emotionally alone. That some people see her only as a talented cook, and not as a whole person.

Favorite movie: "Ratatouille" – because it reminds him of his father, the kitchen, and because true passion isn't measured by recognition.

Favorite singer: Andrés Calamaro – the kind of music that blends melancholy and rhythm, perfect for days of reflection or when cooking alone.

Favorite music: “La Flaca” (by the band Jarabe de Palo) – evokes childhood, Mexican memories, and that taste of freedom and longing.

Favorite color: Olive green – a blend of strength and calm, just as she wants to be.

Favorite dish: Chiles en Nogada – complex, full of history, a flavor that demands attention and delicacy. It recalls its Mexican origin, but also requires technique, just as she likes it.

Secret ingredient: Cinnamon – she believes that a well-placed pinch changes everything: aroma, flavor, and even the feeling of the person tasting it. A touch of boldness in dishes that, otherwise, might seem simple.

Ten months had passed since Ivy had last seen Ethan. Ten months of ignored messages, unanswered calls, canceled visits. He didn't even come back to see his parents. She tried to convince herself that everything was alright, but the emptiness showed in the little things: meals she prepared alone, achievements she wanted to share, laughter that only made sense when she remembered him. Then came the news: one of the program's biggest investors would be coming in person to evaluate the students. The information arrived a month in advance. A whole month to prepare the best dishes, use the best techniques, and showcase all the accumulated creativity without room for error. He wasn't the nice guy type. He didn't smile out of politeness. He didn't excuse mistakes. He observed, weighed, and decided. Ivy spent the following days and nights among technique books, internal tests, and experiments in the kitchen. Every detail was reviewed, every recipe repeated until it was almost perfect. It wasn't just about flavor. It was about presentation, rhythm, strength, time management, impeccable execution. Every touch, every cut, every sauce had to be signed with precision. What was most impressive was who he was outside of that environment. The investor's social media presence was almost a mystery. Photos of spectacular views, perfect dishes, exotic trips. No face, nothing spontaneous, nothing tangible about his real life. But more than thirty million followers knew his name. And everyone on the show revered him as if he were an entity. For Ivy, this meant: the world she wanted to enter didn't accept mediocre effort, didn't accept excuses. The weight of responsibility tightened in her chest, but at the same time, it did something that hadn't happened since Guadalajara: she felt the fire in the kitchen burning stronger, as if she were capable of anything. Katie, standing beside her, tried to ease the tension, but even she was anxious and wanted to impress the man.

In the first few months, boarding school offered no respite. Every morning there was training, class, practice. Every night there was a test, a report, recipe review, technique study. There was hardly time to think, breathe, remember home or Guadalajara. The outside world seemed to exist only when she forced it inside. It was in this chaos that Katie emerged, Ivy's roommate and first real friend at boarding school. Katie had already been there for a year, knew the program, the teachers, the secret paths to avoid getting lost. She guided Ivy without condescension, helped with practical tips, reminded Ivy of deadlines she forgot, and made impromptu breakfasts when she arrived late at night. It wasn't just help. It was an anchor. Even amidst the chaos, Ivy maintained constant contact with Emma and her parents. Short messages, videos of dishes, questions about how everyone was doing. Whenever Emma didn't have college on weekends, Ivy would rush home or to see her sister, maintaining a semblance of normalcy amidst the storm. Ethan… well, Ethan was changing in a way that was almost imperceptible, but painful. He answered calls at parties, mingled with friends Ivy would never have chosen, laughed easily, and seemed happier than ever. But Ivy knew it wasn't because of the show, it wasn't because of the grades, it wasn't because of the effort or the recognition. It was a new world he was embracing without her, a world she wasn't a part of. Each of his short messages carried a subtle distance. Each lack of response was perceived, felt, internalized. Ivy found herself comparing the Ethan she knew with the Ethan who appeared in photos, stories, messages. And there was no fault on his part. Just life showing that the paths they had chosen were no longer parallel. But Ivy didn't stop. I couldn't. The program demanded total dedication. And she was determined to make every sacrifice worthwhile. Every perfect dish, every well-executed challenge, every small recognition became fuel to avoid losing everything.

The wait was agonizing. Weeks that felt like months, each letter from the program that arrived was read and reread, each email checked three times, each day dragged on until the final confirmation. When she finally arrived: she went inside. The ecstasy couldn't be contained within her body. Her heart was racing, her hands trembled, her eyes shone. It was as if all the afternoons spent burning fat on the stove, all the improvised cuts and sauces, all the memories of her father and Guadalajara had been rewarded all at once. Ethan was beside her when she opened the letter. For a moment, everything between them stopped. There were no complicated relationships, irritations, or silent days. Just the two of them, laughing, breathing, without any weight. They hugged for the first time without pressure. A long, firm, genuine hug. Ivy felt she could let go and still not fall. Ethan seemed to feel the same way. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. The embrace spoke for them. The farewell to their parents was silent, but filled with affection. "You're going to shine," said the mother, in that tone that mixes pride and concern. "Don't forget to cook for what you believe in," her father said, squeezing her hand in a way only he knew how. Then came Emma, ​​with a wide, provocative smile: "Now you're going to prove that I'm not the only one who makes the right choices." Ivy laughed, hugged her, feeling her friend's twin sister holding back her own anxiety about the future. Ethan was going with her, but in a different direction: law school. It wouldn't be boarding school, but the distance already felt like a silent promise of separation. They talked about everything and nothing on the way to the station, about exams, expectations, childhood memories. Ivy felt a weight mixed with freedom. For the first time, life wasn't pulling her back. She was going towards something that was solely hers. When the boarding school door closed behind her, Ivy took a deep breath. It was cold, different, intense. But it was the first time that fear and excitement hadn't fought inside her.

The program was called "Young Horizons". It was famous not for advertising, but for results. Young people who went through it left with a good reputation, open doors, guaranteed internships, and sometimes even investors looking for talent. For the parents, it seemed like a golden path. For the participants, it was a battlefield disguised as a learning experience. The entrance exam wasn't just technical. It was physical, mental, and emotional. For Ivy, each dish she prepared during the test was measured by something beyond taste: creativity, courage, precision, and blood pressure control. For law applicants, debates, argumentation, and logic were tested to the limit. Other courses evaluated art, music, dance, design… any talent that could be honed. The cooking test that Ivy took began early in the morning. Simple ingredients, minimal cooking, but the judges were strict. Every move was observed. One mistake could cost her the spot. More than that: it was about showing who you really were under pressure. Ivy knew she couldn't fake it, or act. Every dish had to be hers. The program offered advanced courses, masterclasses with renowned chefs, international study trips, and even investment opportunities in projects for those who truly loved the profession. They promised a lot, but the demands were relentless. There was no room for mediocre talent. For Ivy, it was unlike any school she had ever known. Here, passion carried weight, and no one could ignore it. She quickly learned that respect isn't asked for, it's earned with sweat, precise cuts, infinite patience, and a touch of creativity that no one else expected. Ethan entered the law program thinking about rules, contracts, and solid arguments. He laughed at everything Ivy said, still trying to convince her that "a safe life" was worth more than the risk of loving the fire in the kitchen. But he didn't understand that, for Ivy, cooking wasn't a risk, it was existence. For Emma, ​​it was almost comical. She kept watching the two of them, seeing Ethan squirm.

It was Emma who discovered the program. Always connected to anything that shone brighter than them, always with a boyfriend's friend in the right place. She saw the online advertisement, the job posting for talented young people, and knew instantly: Ivy needed this. Emma rushed into their house, laughing and excited, dragging Ivy and Ethan along. "You have to see this!" She didn't wait for explanations. She didn't ask if it was convenient. She just knew it was their path to something bigger. Ethan, of course, went into control mode. "Law, Ivy. You should study law. Stability, a guaranteed future." Ivy stared at Emma, ​​hoping her boyfriend's twin sister would convince her. Emma simply smiled and said: "Forget it. You're not going to do it right. You cook, and I signed up for you. There's no going back now." Ivy could hardly believe it. Did anyone believe in what she loved without questioning? Emma believed. Emma didn't ask for explanations. She didn't say it might be dangerous. She just opened the door and pushed. Ethan didn't like it. He complained, huffed, said it wasn't fair. But Emma had done everything too quickly to be interrupted. And he ended up agreeing out of exhaustion, knowing that if he objected, he would lose the joke and the moment. So off they went, at 18 years old, heading towards the entrance exam. Ivy's heart raced, a mixture of excitement and fear, as she felt for the first time that the kitchen was not just a refuge, but a real route. Ethan went to his side, serious and confident, trying to keep the logic intact, the certainty that everything had to be rational, predictable. Ivy looked at him and silently realized that he couldn't go down this path with her. She felt it in the cold hallway of the program, in the smell of fresh paint, and in the noise of other young people who also wanted to prove themselves. The test wasn't just about skill. It was about endurance, presence, creativity. Every dish they prepared was observed, weighed, measured. Ivy felt alive.

Their relationship never officially began. It flowed into the following years like everything else Ivy never had the courage to stop. On the outside, it seemed stable. Long. Admirable, even. People liked to say they “grew up together.” Ivy smiled when she heard that, even without knowing exactly what it meant. In intimate moments, her body always arrived before the decision. The kisses started well. Natural. Familiar. After a while, something would get stuck. She would withdraw with flimsy excuses. Shortness of breath. The heat. Anything. Ethan always said he understood. That he respected her space. He said it with words that were too calm for what his eyes betrayed. Because respect came with a restrained irritation. He became quieter. Less available. He gave curt answers. Sometimes he would leave early. Other times, he would simply stop talking to her for days. No declared fight. No explanation. Just absence. And Ivy, predictably as always, took the blame. She thought that maybe she was broken. That maybe love was just that: a constant discomfort that you learn to manage. When Ethan started talking to her again as if nothing had happened, there was immediate relief. A relief that erased any previous resentment. Emma saw everything. She bluntly called Ethan an idiot. She said he was being passive-aggressive. That respect didn't come with punishment. That Ivy shouldn't accept silence as punishment. Ivy listened. She agreed in part. It never ended. Because breaking up meant losing more than just a boyfriend. It meant losing a childhood friend. A safe place. Consistency. And Ivy wasn't good at dealing with emptiness, even when it was necessary. Then the cycle repeated itself. She was walking away. He was getting annoyed. He would disappear. She was waiting. He was coming back. And each return came with that deceptive feeling of normalcy. As if it had all been a collective misunderstanding not worth revisiting. The eight years passed like that.

After spending time with Ethan, Ivy was never the same again. It wasn't euphoria. It was contained agitation. A light weight on her chest, as if something had been displaced and her body was still trying to adjust. She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, going over banal conversations, searching for meaning where there was no clear intention. Sometimes she smiled to herself. Other times, she felt guilty without knowing exactly why. She liked his company. She liked it too much. But I liked it like someone who likes a familiar place, not like someone who wants to explore something new. When he complimented her, she felt both seen and trapped at the same time. When he asked if she liked someone, a lump formed in her throat that didn't match the easy answer she gave. And when he distanced himself, even for a short time, an irrational fear arose that it could all end. It wasn't passion. It was an emotional dependency in formation, still unlabeled. At home, her parents noticed before she did. First came the casual comments. His mother asking if Ethan was coming to dinner. His father joking that the kitchen was more lively when he showed up. Then, direct questions, phrased with too much care to seem like mere curiosity. "Are you two dating?" Ivy always responded too quickly. She would say no, laugh, or change the subject. She felt that accepting that idea was like closing a door she didn't yet have the courage to walk through. Until the day Ethan answered for her. They were in the kitchen. The father was stirring a pot, the mother was chopping vegetables. Ethan leaned against the counter, comfortable as someone who already felt part of the house. The question came casually, almost automatically. He didn't look at Ivy before answering. I just said "yes," as if it were obvious. The word hung heavily in the air. Ivy felt her face grow hot. It wasn't joy. It was shock. A split second in which she thought about correcting them, laughing, saying it wasn't quite like that. But her parents smiled. Not that big smile. A relieved smile. And she felt the responsibility of realizing there was no going back.

At 14, their rebellion wasn't grand. It was discreet, cold, too planned to seem innocent. They would run away from home at night with large coats, rehearsed excuses, and the delightful feeling of doing something no one had authorized. The skate park was somewhat hidden, lit only by a lamppost that flickered intermittently. The concrete was cracked, and the smell of metal and old marijuana never completely dissipated. It was where they went when they wanted to exist outside of expectations. Emma was the driving force behind the whole thing. She had charm, courage, and zero patience for boundaries. She dated guys in their final year of high school, always a different one, always older, always "temporary." She got drinks with absurd ease, as if the adult world simply paved the way for her to pass through. Cheap vodka, warm beer, laughter that's too loud. When Emma wandered off to find her boyfriend hiding behind the bleachers or inside a car parked far away, Ethan and Ivy were left alone. Sitting side by side, sharing a drink that Ivy pretended to enjoy. They talked about everything and nothing. About idiotic teachers. Regarding the future, always said in a joking tone. About things they didn't have the courage to say during the day. It was there that Ivy began to feel something strange. Not explosive. Persistent. Ethan stared excessively when he was high. It wasn't an intrusive look. It was attentive. Lingering. As if he were trying to memorize her face while talking about unimportant things. He laughed easily, complimented every detail. He said she looked beautiful when she was concentrating. I liked the way she explained simple things as if they were important. No one cooked like her, not even when she improvised with market scraps. And then came the questions, thrown in as if they didn't care. If she was interested in someone. If anyone had already tried something. If she had thought about dating. Ivy responded with half-truths and a nervous laugh. She said no, that she didn't care about that, that it was complicated.

His name is Ethan Moore. A simple name, easy to pronounce anywhere. It suits him. Ethan always knew how to fit in. He always knew how to speak the right way, at the right time, to the right person. Not out of falsehood. Out of instinct. He was too tall for his age when they met, a bit awkward, with that quick wit that appears before the silence becomes awkward. Ethan joked not to get attention, but to lighten the mood, as if it were his responsibility to keep everything light. It was with him that Ivy learned her first inside jokes in English. Things that didn't make sense when translated. Things that were only funny because they were theirs. Emma Moore was born minutes after Ethan and never let that go unnoticed. Where Ethan softened, Emma confronted. Where he skirted around, she cut through. They were the same height, with the same recognizable face, but a more direct, almost assessing gaze. Ivy liked her instantly, even though she thought it wouldn't be reciprocated. It was. Emma was the first person in Canada to enter Ivy's house without feeling awkward. She commented on the smell of the food as someone who recognizes something, not as someone who judges. She ate in silence, had seconds, and said, "Okay, that explains you." They became close effortlessly. Over time, Emma became a confidante. Not of dramatic secrets, but of the little things. Silly fears. Accumulated anger. Doubts that didn't yet know a name. Inside jokes: They had an entire repertoire. They called bad days "watery soup days". When something went terribly wrong, they would say it was "the invisible oven's fault." They always laughed whenever someone said "guaranteed future," because it sounded like a disguised threat. Ethan teased Ivy about the way she pushed her hair back when she was nervous. Emma teased Ivy about always offering food when she didn't know what to say. Ivy complained that they argued too much and didn't even seem like twins.

Toronto seemed too clean, too organized, too quiet. People spoke softly, apologized for things that weren't their fault, and glanced quickly, as if prolonged contact were impolite. Ivy felt cold before she felt homesick. A cold that seeped into her clothes and lingered, even indoors. At school, the language wasn't the problem. What was the problem was the way things were done. She spoke correctly, but not identically. He ate things that smelled different. He brought snacks that nobody recognized. He quickly learned to observe before speaking. To correct his accent. To laugh at the right time. That's how he survived. She met her best friend in this state of constant adaptation. He sat two rows behind her, always with ready answers and an irritating ease in fitting in. He didn't ask her where she was from on the first day. He asked her what she liked to do. When she answered "cooking," expecting automatic laughter, he simply said that his father could burn even water and that this must be a rare talent. It didn't sound like a compliment. It sounded normal. And that was enough. They started spending time together because it was simple. Chores, group projects, similar routes home. He explained expressions that weren't in books. She secretly shared food with him because he always forgot to eat lunch. Friendship was born like that, without promises, without pressure. At 13, Ivy realized that cooking wasn't just an inheritance. It was an ordinary afternoon, alone at home, trying out one of her father's recipes without him around. Something went wrong. She adjusted it. Tasted it. Adjusted it again. When she got it right, she felt a rare inner silence. A kind of perfect fit. It wasn't pride. It was certainty. She understood then that, even if the world never recognized it, she would continue doing it. Out of necessity. When she told her parents that she wanted to pursue cooking for real, fear appeared before the smile. The father remained too quiet. The mother asked if she was sure, and she confirmed. They accepted, albeit reluctantly.

Her childhood in Mexico had flavor before it even had words. Guadalajara was hot, noisy, too vibrant for someone with small dreams. The house was simple, always with something broken that "could be fixed later," and a kitchen that functioned as the center of the world. Her father cooked as if he believed in the food. He didn't measure the seasoning. He felt it. He spoke to the pots and pans as if they understood, and Ivy grew up thinking that was normal. The taste of childhood was intense. Corn roasted until almost burnt. Sauces that were spicier than expected. Meat cooked for too long because nobody was in a hurry when there was food. Everything was intense, passionate, full of intention. Nothing was neutral. They weren't happy, but they were hopeful. And that's what's most deceiving. The father talked a lot about the future. He talked while chopping onions, while stirring broths, while cleaning the counter at the end of the night. He said that talent doesn't stay hidden forever. That someone would notice. That this place was just the beginning. The restaurant already had a name before it existed. "Root and Fire." It was meant to be small, but well-known. A place where the food wouldn't apologize for being intense. Ivy learned the name even before she learned to write properly. She would draw the sign in old notebooks, imagine wooden tables, important people walking in and saying they had never tasted anything like it. For a while, it seemed possible. The father tried competitions, investors, partnerships. He worked for other cooks who knew how to sell better than cook. There was always a "near miss." A compliment that didn't turn into a contract. A contact who never called back. The kind of disappointment that doesn't explode. It just accumulates. The expectation of escaping poverty had become a fragile thing, too carefully considered to be spoken aloud. Her mother stopped asking when the restaurant would be ready. Ivy stopped drawing the sign. When they decided to leave, there was no dramatic scene. Just silence. The farewell to the city of dreams was too quick.

Name: Ivy Keller Álvarez “Ivy” because her mother liked short, lively names. “Keller” came from her father, too European for the wrong place. She uses “Álvarez” infrequently, but has never forgotten it. It’s the part of her that came before everything went wrong.

Age: 22 years Young enough to still be underestimated. Old enough to already be tired of it.

Date of birth: September 17th She was born at the end of summer, when the heat still lingers, but the air already promises change. It suits her, unfortunately. Place of birth: Guadalajara, Mexico My earliest memories are filled with the smell of hot corn, an old pot, and my father's voice complaining about the supplier. The kitchen was small, but vibrant.

Change: She moved to Canada at age 11 when her father's career couldn't withstand debt, empty promises, and lack of recognition. The kind of failure that doesn't explode. It just keeps tightening.

Current city: Toronto Too big to feel like she belongs, too organized to allow for mistakes. She likes and hates it in equal measure.

Address: Shares an old apartment in the west of the city, too close to the subway and with a kitchen that's smaller than it should be. The rent is expensive, the walls are thin, but the window lets in afternoon sun. That's enough.

Eyes: Dark brown, almost black when she is tired. They are not obviously expressive. They observe more than they reveal. When she is focused, they become fixed, intense, as if the world around them were dispensable noise.

Allergy: Mild allergy to seafood, especially shrimp. The kind of irony the universe loves. She cooks carefully, using gloves when necessary, with absolute respect. She never tastes it. She trusts her smell, her technique, her memory. It works. Accent: The Mexican accent never went away. She learned to control it early on, softening her vowels and controlling the rhythm. In everyday life, almost no one notices. But when she's tired, nervous, or wants to provoke someone, he slips away. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes as a warning.

Her body was never meant to be observed in silence. It demands context. Her skin carries a mixture that no one can quite label. She inherited her father's fair complexion, her mother's warm undertones, and the result changes depending on the light. In the warmth of the kitchen, it turns golden. In the cold, it becomes darker. Freckles appear uninvited, scattered across her face and shoulders, as if the sun had decided to stay. She forgets they're there until someone comments. Her hair is a constant problem. Curly, voluminous, full of a mind of its own. It demands time she doesn't always have and patience she sometimes lacks. When it's loose, it takes up space. When it's tied up, it always escapes. In the kitchen, some curls insist on falling onto her forehead, sticking with sweat, and she pushes them back without even thinking. She's tried to tame it. She's given up. Today she just lives with it. Hands tell stories that go beyond the surface. Small marks, old cuts, stains that won't come out. These aren't carelessness issues. They're consequences. Cooking has never been kind to those who take it seriously. There's a scar that breaks the continuity of the skin, thin, light, visible enough to be noticed by anyone who really looks. She doesn't usually explain it. Not because it hurts to remember, but because she sees no reason to turn everything into a narrative for others. The piercing on her left breast is a secret that doesn't seek approval. It's not provocation. It's possession. A silent gesture of choice over her own body, made at a time when almost everything seemed to be decided for her. Few people know it exists. Even fewer understand it. Her face tends towards concentration. She seems distant when she's focused, as if she's always listening to something others don't hear. When she smiles, she doesn't hold back. The smile is complete, a little crooked, the kind that appears when she forgets to protect herself. She doesn't think she's beautiful. Nor does she think she's ugly. Her body is a tool, a shelter, and a memory. And, above all, it's the place where her will is still only hers.