Chapter 5 The Weight Of Words
1168 Words
Malliah never imagined her words could carry weight beyond the pages of her notebook. But after the library reading, something shifted—not just in her, but in the people around her. Younger students began approaching her with questions about writing. Ms. Reyes asked if she’d consider mentoring a small group. Even Eli, who had always seen her as quietly brilliant, began to look at her with a kind of reverence.
The Carmona Public Library had always been a quiet place—its walls lined with aging books, its windows streaked with sunlight, its corners filled with the scent of paper and dust. For years, Malliah had walked its aisles like a ghost, slipping between shelves, reading in silence, never drawing attention. But now, she entered with purpose.
Ms. Reyes, the librarian, greeted her with a warm smile. “They’re waiting for you in the back room.”
Malliah nodded, clutching her notebook to her chest. Her heart beat faster than she liked to admit. She wasn’t used to being looked at, listened to, or expected. But something inside her had shifted. She wasn’t just writing for herself anymore. She was writing to connect.
The back room was small but bright. A circle of chairs had been arranged around a low table, scattered with pens, paper, and half-eaten snacks. Five students sat waiting—some chatting, some scribbling, some staring nervously at the floor. They ranged in age from ten to fifteen, each carrying a notebook, each carrying a story.
Malliah took her seat and smiled gently. “Hi. I’m Malliah. I’m not here to teach you how to write. I’m here to help you find your voice.”
A boy named Tomas raised his hand. “What if I don’t have one?”
“You do,” she said. “You just haven’t heard it clearly yet.”
The others nodded, unsure but curious.
And so it began.
Each Saturday, the group met for two hours. Malliah brought prompts—some simple, some strange. “Write a letter to your future self.” “Describe your sadness as a color.” “Tell a story where silence is the main character.” The students responded with poems, short stories, and fragments of thought. Some were raw. Some were clumsy. All were honest.
Lianne, a quiet girl with large eyes and a nervous smile, wrote about her father’s absence in the form of a missing puzzle piece. Tomas wrote about his grandmother’s garden, where grief bloomed beside hibiscus. Another student, shy and soft-spoken, wrote a story about a bird who couldn’t sing—but learned to dance instead.
Malliah read each piece with care. She didn’t correct grammar or punctuation. She circled sentences that felt true. “This line,” she’d say, pointing to a phrase, “feels like it came from somewhere deep. Hold onto it.”
The students began to trust her. They began to trust themselves.
Word spread.
By the end of October, the group had doubled. Ms. Reyes suggested hosting a monthly showcase. Malliah hesitated—she didn’t want the spotlight. But the students were eager. They wanted to be heard.
The first showcase was intimate. Parents filled the chairs. Ms. Reyes baked cookies. Eli brought his camera. Malliah introduced each student with quiet pride.
Lianne read her puzzle piece poem. Tomas shared a new piece about the smell of rain. The bird who couldn’t sing danced across the page again, this time with wings made of paper.
Afterward, a mother approached Malliah with tears in her eyes. “He never talks at home,” she said, gesturing to her son. “But today, he spoke.”
Malliah nodded, unsure how to respond. She didn’t feel like she’d done anything extraordinary. She’d simply listened.
But maybe that was the point.
One evening, Malliah sat beneath the mango tree, notebook open, reflecting on the past few months. She thought about Joshua’s letter, still tucked inside her journal. She hadn’t written again. Not because she didn’t care—but because she didn’t need to.
His words had been a gift. A reminder. But her life was no longer shaped by absence. It was shaped by presence.
She wrote:
I used to think words were fragile. Now I know they’re powerful. They can build bridges. They can break the silence. They can become wings.
Eli joined her, camera slung across his chest. “You’ve changed,” he said.
Malliah looked up. “How?”
“You speak more. You smile more. You take up space.”
She smiled. “I think I’m learning to believe I deserve it.”
Eli nodded. “You always did.”
The mentorship group continued to grow. Malliah began organizing writing prompts, themed sessions, and even collaborative pieces. One week, they wrote letters to their future selves. Another, they wrote apologies they’d never send.
The students began to share more than stories. They shared fears, hopes, fragments of themselves they’d never voiced aloud.
Malliah saw herself in them.
She saw the girl who once sat beneath a mango tree, afraid to speak. She saw the girl who mistook quiet for invisibility. She saw the girl who had loved someone silently and learned to love herself loudly.
She wrote:
Mentorship isn’t about teaching. It’s about witnessing. It’s about saying, “I see you,” and meaning it.
One afternoon, Ms. Reyes handed Malliah another envelope. This one was sealed. Her name was written in the same familiar handwriting.
Joshua.
She opened it slowly.
Malliah, I read your piece in the Carmona Literary Journal. The one about the bird who couldn’t sing. I knew it was yours. I could feel your voice in every line. I’m proud of you. Not because you wrote something beautiful. But because you chose to share it. I don’t know what we are now. I don’t know if we’ll ever be more than a memory. But I’m grateful to you. For the way you changed me. For the way you continue to change others. Keep writing. Keep becoming. —Joshua
Malliah folded the letter and placed it beside the first.
She didn’t write back.
She didn’t need to.
The next showcase was larger. The mayor attended. A local journalist took notes. Ms. Reyes beamed. Eli captured every moment.
Malliah stood at the podium, introducing the students one by one. Her voice was steady. Her heart was full.
Afterward, she sat beneath the mango tree, notebook open, pen in hand.
She wrote:
Becoming isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s slow. It’s deliberate. And it’s mine.
She looked up at the stars, then at the students laughing in the distance.
Her words had weight now.
And she was ready to carry them.
The chapter closes with Malliah standing before a new group of students, notebook in hand, voice steady.
She begins the session with a question: “What does your truth sound like?”
And then she listens.
She listens to the weight of words.
She listens to the shape of becoming.
- Writer
