Chapter 4 The Shape Of Becoming
1535 Words
Malliah had never read her words aloud to anyone.
Her notebook was sacred—pages filled with thoughts too raw, too delicate to be spoken. But something had shifted. It wasn’t just Eli’s presence, or Joshua’s absence. It was the way her own voice had begun to echo back at her, louder than before. She was no longer writing to fill the silence. She was writing to understand it.
One morning, she sat at the kitchen table, notebook open, sunlight spilling across the page. Her mother was slicing mangoes, humming a tune Malliah didn’t recognize.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” Malliah asked suddenly.
Her mother paused, her knife hovering in midair. “Leaving where?”
“Here. Carmona. This house.”
Her mother smiled softly. “I used to. When I was your age, I thought the world was waiting for me. But then I met your father. And the world became smaller. Not worse. Just… different.”
Malliah nodded, unsure if that comforted her or frightened her.
Later that day, she walked to the local library—a small, sunlit building tucked between a bakery and a hardware store. She’d been coming here since she was nine, but today felt different. Today, she wasn’t just a reader. She was a writer.
She approached the librarian, Ms. Reyes, a gentle woman with silver-streaked hair and a voice like warm tea.
“Ms. Reyes,” Malliah said, clutching her notebook, “Do you ever host readings? For young writers?”
Ms. Reyes looked up, surprised. “We used to. Before the pandemic. Why?”
“I’d like to read something,” Malliah said, her voice trembling.
Ms. Reyes smiled. “Then we’ll make it happen.”
The announcement came up the next week: Local Voices: A Night of Young Writers, Friday, 6 PM. Carmona Public Library.
Malliah stared at the flyer for a long time. Her name was listed first.
She didn’t tell Eli. Not yet. She wasn’t sure she could say the words out loud without unraveling.
Instead, she wrote.
September 15, I’m afraid. Not of people. Not speaking. I’m afraid of being seen. Really seen. What if they don’t like what they find?
She practiced in her room, whispering the words into the quiet. She chose three pieces—one about Joshua, one about Eli, and one about herself. Each one felt like a thread in a tapestry she hadn’t realized she was weaving.
The night of the reading arrived.
Malliah wore a simple white blouse and jeans. Her hair was braided, her notebook tucked under her arm. The library was warm, filled with folding chairs and the scent of old paper. A small crowd had gathered—mostly parents, a few students, and Ms. Reyes, who greeted her with a reassuring nod.
Eli was there.
She hadn’t invited him, but he came anyway. He sat in the back, camera in hand, eyes steady.
Malliah stepped up to the podium.
Her hands trembled. Her voice caught. But then she looked at Eli. And she remembered Joshua’s note. And she remembered her own words.
She began to read.
“There was a boy who saw the stars in my silence. He didn’t ask me to speak. He just listened. And in that listening, I found my voice.”
The room was silent.
She read the second piece—about Eli’s shadows, about the way he saw beauty in broken things.
“He told me shadows are honest. I think he’s right. But honesty isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s the hardest thing.”
And then the third piece.
“I used to think I was invisible. That my quietness made me forgettable. But I’ve learned that silence is not the absence of sound. It’s the presence of depth. And I am deep. I am here.”
When she finished, the room erupted in gentle applause. Ms. Reyes wiped a tear from her cheek. Eli smiled, wide and proud.
Malliah felt something shift inside her.
She wasn’t afraid anymore.
After the reading, Eli approached her.
“You were brilliant,” he said.
Malliah shrugged, still flushed. “I was terrified.”
“That’s what made it brave.”
He handed her a photo—taken during her reading. She was standing at the podium, eyes closed, mouth open mid-sentence. Behind her, the shelves of books glowed in the soft light.
“You look like you belong there,” Eli said.
Malliah stared at the photo. “Maybe I do.”
The next day, she wrote a letter.
Not to Joshua. Not to Eli. To herself.
Dear Malliah, You did it. You spoke. You were heard. And they didn’t run. They stayed. They listened. You are not invisible. You are not small. You are becoming. And that is the most beautiful thing.
She folded the letter and tucked it into the back of her notebook.
Weeks passed.
Malliah began submitting her writing to small journals. She joined an online forum for young poets. She started tutoring younger students at the library. Her world was expanding—not in loud, dramatic ways, but in quiet, steady ripples.
She still missed Joshua.
But it wasn’t a painful miss. It was a great one. He had been a beginner. Not a destination.
Eli remained her friend. Her confidant. But something was changing there, too. A closeness that felt like a possibility.
One evening, he asked, “Do you think you’ll leave Carmona?”
Malliah looked at the stars. “I think I’ll grow. Whether I stay or go.”
Eli nodded. “That’s enough.”
The chapter closes with Malliah sitting beneath the mango tree, notebook open, pen in hand. She writes:
October 2 Becoming isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s slow. It’s deliberate. And it’s mine.
It was a Tuesday when the letter arrived.
Malliah found it tucked between the pages of a poetry anthology at the library—one she hadn’t touched in weeks. Ms. Reyes handed it to her with a curious smile. “Someone dropped this off for you. Said it belonged in your favorite book.”
Malliah stared at the envelope. Her name was written in neat, familiar handwriting. No return address. No stamp.
She knew instantly.
Joshua.
She didn’t open it right away. She carried it home, placed it on her desk, and stared at it for hours. The envelope felt heavier than paper should have. It contained not just words, but time. Memory. Meaning.
That night, beneath the mango tree, she opened it.
Malliah, I’ve thought about writing to you every day since I left. But I wasn’t sure if I had the right thing. I wasn’t sure if silence was kinder than honesty. I still don’t know. Manila is loud. Fast. Full of ambition. I’m doing well—classes, internships, the whole path I planned. But something’s missing. Not in a romantic way. Not in a dramatic way. Just… quietly. I miss the way you saw things. The way you made stillness feel sacred. I miss the mango tree. The marigolds. The quiet. I wanted to tell you that I kept your note. I read it when the city feels too big. It reminds me that depth doesn’t need volume. I hope you’re writing. I hope you’re dreaming. I hope you’re becoming. You don’t have to write back. I just wanted you to know. —Joshua
Malliah read the letter three times.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t smile.
She just sat there, notebook in her lap, heart steady.
The next morning, she wrote.
Not a reply. Not yet. Just thoughts.
October 7, He remembers. That matters. But memory isn’t a tether. It’s a thread. And I get to choose whether to pull or let go.
She carried the letter with her for days. Folded neatly, tucked into the back of her notebook. It wasn’t a burden. It was a reminder. Of who she was. Of who she had been.
Eli noticed her quietness.
“Are you okay?” he asked one afternoon, as they walked through the market.
“I got a letter,” she said.
“From him?”
She nodded.
Eli didn’t ask to read it. He didn’t press. He just walked beside her, letting the silence speak.
That weekend, Malliah returned to the library. She sat in her usual corner, notebook open, pen poised. She began to write—not to Joshua, not to Eli, but to herself.
Dear Malliah, You are not defined by who remembers you. You are defined by what you choose to remember. And what you choose to become.
She paused.
Then, slowly, she began a new letter.
Joshua, Thank you for writing. Thank you for remembering. I’m writing. I’m dreaming. I’m becoming. I don’t know what this letter means. I don’t know what we are now. But I know what I am. And that’s enough. Take care of your noise. And your loneliness. They’re beautiful. —Malliah
She didn’t send it.
Not yet.
She folded it, placed it beside his letter, and closed her notebook.
The chapter closes with Malliah walking home beneath a sky full of stars. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t rush forward. She simply walks—steady, quiet, becoming.
- Writer
