Chapter 6 Echo Of Light
1034 Words
Until Malliah prepares for a regional writing competition, faces impostor syndrome, and learns that courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s the decision to speak anyway. It’s a story of vulnerability, growth, and the quiet power of showing up.
The invitation arrived on a Thursday afternoon, tucked inside a manila envelope with the library’s seal stamped in blue ink. Ms. Reyes handed it to Malliah with a proud smile, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses.
“You’ve been nominated,” she said, “for the Regional Young Writers’ Showcase. They’re selecting ten voices from across Calabarzon. And you’re one of them.” Malliah could not believe it.
Malliah stared at the envelope, her heart thudding. “Me?” Still, awe at the announcement she heard just now.
Ms. Reyes nodded. “Your work in the journal caught their attention. And your mentorship program. You’re not just writing—you’re shaping voices.” Her teacher smiled at her while tapping her shoulder. She indeed showed how proud she was of Malliah.
Malliah didn’t know what to say. She felt honored. She felt terrified. Yet, she felt so excited about the news. It was really great.
That night, she sat beneath the mango tree, the envelope unopened in her lap. The stars blinked overhead, quiet and distant. Eli joined her, as he often did, a camera slung across his chest, his presence steady.
“You’re quiet,” he said while sitting beside her.
“I got invited to a regional showcase,” she replied while looking into his eyes.
Eli raised his eyebrows. “That’s amazing.” He smiled, showing how proud he was of Malliah's news.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Malliah replied. She was a bit hesitant to join.
“Why not?” Eli asked her. "I know you can do it," he said with conviction.
She hesitated. “I’m not… polished. I’m not trained. I’m just a girl who writes in a notebook.” Malliah was a bit shy while confessing to Eli.
Eli looked at her, thoughtfully. “You’re a girl who made other people believe they could speak. That’s more than polished. That’s powerful.” He looked into Malliah's eyes sincerely.
Malliah smiled, but the doubt lingered.
The next morning, she opened the envelope and read what was inside.
Inside was a formal letter, printed on thick paper, inviting her to present a five-minute reading at the showcase in Batangas City. The event would be held at a university auditorium, with writers, educators, and journalists in attendance.
She had two weeks to prepare.
She chose a piece she’d written months ago—a story about a girl who collected echoes. Not sounds, but moments. The way her mother’s laughter lingered in the kitchen. The way her father’s silence filled the room after he left. The way her own voice trembled when she first spoke aloud.
It was personal. It was vulnerable. It was hers.
She began to rehearse.
But the closer the event came, the louder the doubt grew.
What if she wasn’t good enough?
What if her voice cracked?
What if they saw through her—saw the girl who used to hide behind books, who used to flinch at attention, who used to believe she was invisible?
She wrote in her journal:
November 12 Impostor syndrome is a thief. It steals your voice before you even speak. But I’ve learned
That fear doesn’t mean stop. It means a step forward.
She kept rehearsing.
She read to Ms. Reyes, who cried.
She read to Eli, who said, “You sound like light.”
She read to herself, in the mirror, until her voice stopped shaking.
The day of the showcase arrived.
Malliah wore a simple navy dress, her hair braided, her notebook tucked into her bag. Eli drove her to Batangas in his father’s old van, the windows down, the wind warm.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I’m going anyway.”
The university auditorium was larger than she expected—rows of seats, a stage with a podium, a spotlight overhead. The other writers were older, more confident, dressed in blazers and heels. Malliah felt small. But she remembered Eli’s words. You sound like light.
She took her seat.
When her name was called, she walked to the podium, her steps slow but steady. The spotlight warmed her face. The microphone hummed.
She opened her notebook.
She began to read.
“There was a girl who collected echoes. Not sounds, but moments. The way her mother’s laughter lingered in the kitchen. The way her father’s silence filled the room after he left. The way her own voice trembled when she first spoke aloud.”
She paused.
“She didn’t know her voice mattered. Until someone listened. Until someone said, ‘I see you.’ And she believed them.”
Her voice was clear.
Her hands didn’t shake.
She finished the piece, closed her notebook, and looked out at the crowd.
They were silent.
Then, slowly, they began to clap.
Not politely.
But deeply.
Ms. Reyes stood, tears in her eyes.
Eli raised his camera.
Malliah smiled.
She had spoken.
And they had heard her.
After the showcase, a professor approached her.
“Your piece was extraordinary,” he said. “Have you considered publishing a collection?”
Malliah blinked. “A collection?”
He nodded. “Your voice is rare. It deserves space.”
She didn’t know what to say.
She didn’t know how to dream that big.
But something inside her whispered, Why not?
On the drive home, Eli asked, “How do you feel?”
Malliah looked out the window, the sky streaked with orange and gold.
“Like I echoed,” she said.
Eli smiled. “You did.”
That night, beneath the mango tree, she wrote:
November 14 I used to think courage was loud. But it’s not. It’s quiet. It’s the moment you speak, even when your voice shakes. It’s the moment you show up, even when you’re afraid. It’s the echo of light.
She closed her notebook.
She looked up at the stars.
And she whispered, “I’m ready.”
- Writer
