The decision to participate in the talent show had been made in secret, a quiet rebellion against the weight of my own insecurities. I didn't tell Evana. Not yet. I wanted it to be a surprise, something that would make her smile, something that would show her a side of me she hadn't seen before.
I registered for the talent show first thing in the morning. The whole walk with Evana, in the morning to school, I was mostly quiet because I was only thinking about how would i hide from Evana and register my name in the program. I had to tell few white lies to Evana in this process but...its for the best.
Now it is time to prepare for the thing that was fairly new to me.
But as I sat in my room, surrounded by crumpled sheets of paper and discarded ideas, I wondered if I was fooling myself.
Poetry. The word felt foreign on my tongue, like a language I didn't speak. I wasn't a poet. I wasn't even sure I was a writer. But the idea had taken root in my mind, stubborn and unyielding. I wanted to write something for her, something that would capture the way she made me feel—the way she made the world feel less heavy, less broken.
I picked up a pen and stared at the blank page in front of me. The words wouldn't come. Instead, my mind wandered, drifting to places I didn't want to go.
My mom.
She had been gone for months now, but her absence still lingered in the corners of the house, in the empty bottles tucked away in the trash, in the faint smell of alcohol that never quite faded. I hadn't thought about her much lately, too caught up in the chaos of my own life. But now, sitting alone in the quiet, I couldn't help but remember.She wasn't always like that. There was a time when she laughed, when she smiled, when she held me close and told me everything would be okay. But that version of her felt like a distant memory, blurred by the haze of time and pain. The woman I remembered most was the one who sat in the living room, staring at the wall with a glass in her hand, her eyes empty and far away.
I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts away. This wasn't about her. This was about Evana. This was about me.
I scribbled a few words on the page, then immediately crossed them out. Too cliché. Too forced. I crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the growing pile on the floor.
"Come on, Benji," I muttered to myself. "You can do this." But the harder I tried, the more the words eluded me. Frustration bubbled up inside me, sharp and hot. I wasn't good at this. I wasn't good at anything.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The room felt too small, the walls closing in around me. I needed air. I needed space. But I couldn't leave. Not yet. I had to finish this.
I picked up the pen again and forced myself to write, letting the words spill out without thinking too much about them.
*"You are the light in my darkest days,
The calm in my storm,
The hope in my despair."*
I stopped, my hand trembling. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. I have time to change it. The fact that i started is enough.
I kept writing, pouring everything I couldn't say out loud onto the page. The words came slowly at first, then faster, until I couldn't keep up with my own thoughts. I wrote about the way she made me feel, the way she made me believe in something better. I wrote about the fear and the doubt and the hope that clung to me like a second skin.
By the time I finished, my hand was cramping, and the page was filled with messy, uneven lines. I read it over, my heart pounding in my chest. It wasn't perfect, but it was honest. And maybe that was enough.I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my pocket. The talent show was still a week away, so i had plenty of time to change or redo my poem, but I felt a strange sense of relief, as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
As I cleaned up the mess in my room, my mind drifted back to my mom. I didn't want to think about her, but the memories came anyway, unbidden and unwelcome.
I remembered the way she used to hum softly to herself as she cooked, the way she would smile when I walked into the room. I remembered the way she held me when I was scared, her arms warm and steady around me.But I also remembered the way she looked at the end, her eyes hollow and distant, her hands shaking as she reached for another drink. I remembered the fights, the silence, the way she seemed to disappear a little more each day.
I shook my head, trying to push the memories away. She was gone. There was nothing I could do to change that.
But as I sat there, surrounded by the remnants of my failed attempts, I couldn't help but wonder if she would have been proud of me. If she would have smiled when I stepped onto that stage, if she would have cheered me on.
I didn't know. And maybe I never would.But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was doing something right. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
I looked at the folded paper in my pocket and smiled.
Evana was going to love it.