The alarm shattered the quiet of the morning like a hammer hitting glass.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
I groaned and slapped my hand blindly across my bedside table until I found my phone.
"Five more minutes…" I muttered.
Then my eyes slowly opened.
My brain caught up with reality. And that's when I realized something. I was still wearing my school uniform. My eyes widened.
"Oh, shit! I slept on my uniform?!"
I shot up from the bed, my hair wild, my body stiff from sleeping in the wrong position. The blanket slid to the floor as I jumped out of bed.
"Great, Sharon. Just great," I grumbled.
I rushed toward the bathroom, grabbing a towel along the way. The house was already awake; I could smell something cooking downstairs. That must be Mum.
I paused for a second outside the bathroom door.
"Shower first," I whispered to myself.
A few minutes later, freshly dressed in a simple morning outfit, I hurried downstairs. The kitchen greeted me with warmth and the soft sizzling sound of something frying. And there she was.
My mother stood by the stove, tying her hair into a loose bun while flipping something in the pan.
"Morning, Mum," I said.
She turned and smiled.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty."
I walked over and hugged her quickly before grabbing a glass of water. Then she narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously.
"Tell me something," she said.
"Yes?"
"Did you… sleep in your school uniform last night?"
I froze.
She burst out laughing.
"I knew it!" she said, pointing her spatula at me like she had just solved a crime. "You even had your tie halfway twisted."
I groaned and covered my face.
"Please don't remind me."
"Oh, I will remind you," she teased. "Because my daughter, the organized and responsible Sharon, fell asleep like a tired soldier in her uniform."
I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
"So," she continued, leaning against the counter, "what happened?"
I blinked.
"What do you mean?"
She lifted an eyebrow.
"You don't fall asleep in your uniform unless something is spinning inside that head of yours."
She tapped my forehead lightly.
"What's going on?"
For a moment I hesitated. Then I exhaled.
"Well… something did happen yesterday."
Her curiosity sharpened instantly.
"I'm listening."
So I told her everything. About the presentation. About my poem "Broken Economy." About the applause. About Mrs. Matilda calling me to her office. About the English and Literature Club.
And finally… The poetry competition.
When I finished, I stared down at my hands.
"I don't know, Mum," I admitted quietly. "Maybe I'm overthinking things… or maybe it's just too sudden for me."
She stared at me for two seconds. Then she laughed. Not cruelly. Just the kind of laugh someone gives when they hear something adorably ridiculous.
"Oh, Sharon," she said, shaking her head.
"What?" I frowned.
"You are panicking over something that you literally love doing."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she raised a finger.
"You write stories."
"Yes…"
"You write poems."
"Yes…"
"You stay up late doing it."
"…yes."
"And now you're surprised someone noticed you're good at it?"
I blinked.
When she put it that way… it did sound silly.
She smiled gently.
"Listen," she said, setting the spatula down. "Do you know something about me when I was younger?"
"What?"
"I hated crowds."
I stared at her.
"You?"
"Oh, yes," she said, chuckling. "The thought of speaking in front of people made my knees shake."
"What changed?"
"Life."
She leaned against the counter thoughtfully.
"Confidence doesn't arrive before the moment. It grows during the moment."
I absorbed that slowly.
"So here are my tips," she continued.
She raised one finger.
"First—prepare well. Fear shrinks when preparation grows."
Another finger.
"Second—speak from truth. When your words come from real emotion, people feel it."
And finally, a third finger.
"Third—breathe. When you're nervous, slow breathing calms your body and mind."
She smiled again.
"And remember… the crowd isn't there to fight you. Most of them are secretly hoping you'll succeed."
I felt something loosen inside my chest.
"Maybe you're right," I said.
"Of course I'm right," she replied proudly.
Then she nudged me toward the bathroom.
"Now go shower properly before school. And this time, don't fall asleep halfway."
"Yes, ma'am," I laughed.
The bathroom filled with warm steam as the shower ran. I stepped under the stream, letting the water pour over me. It cascaded down my shoulders, gliding along my skin like soft rain. Droplets traced slow paths down my neck and across my collarbone before slipping further down my body. The warmth relaxed every muscle.
The water danced along my back, slid across my waist, and gathered briefly before falling away in shimmering trails. I closed my eyes. My mind drifted.
Mrs. Matilda.
The competition.
The literature club.
Then suddenly—
Something clicked. My eyes opened.
"A poem…"
The idea rushed into my mind like a sudden flash of lightning.
Feelings. I grabbed the bar of soap absentmindedly as lines began forming inside my head.
Feelings…
I imagined the opening. Someone sitting. Looking at the sky. The meeting point between the earth and the horizon.
Yes. That was it.
The way emotions guide human reactions… the way they shape our personalities.
My thoughts raced faster now. Lines formed. Adjusted. Rearranged.
No… that word is too stiff. Maybe something softer. Something deeper. Something that speaks directly to the human mind.
I rinsed the soap away as more lines appeared.
Challenges.
Shortcomings.
The silent struggles people carry inside their minds.
Yes. That worked.
But the ending… The ending needed something stronger.
I tilted my head back, letting the water fall across my face.
Then the question appeared.
What if there were no feelings?
My eyes widened slightly.
That was powerful.
Would behaviour even exist without emotion? Would people act? Would personality even form?
A small smile formed on my lips.
Yes. That was it.
The poem wasn't complete yet... But the foundation was there.
And as the water continued to flow around me, washing away the last traces of sleep… I realized something.
The competition might not just be an opportunity. It might be the beginning of my voice finding its way into the world.