The English Storytelling Competition
1622 Words
Lea practiced in secret for almost three weeks.
Every night after returning from work, finishing homework, and pretending she wasn’t exhausted, she locked herself inside her bedroom with crumpled papers scattered across the floor.
Then she practiced.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Whispering English sentences into the darkness while the rest of the house slept.
At first, it was terrible.
Her voice trembled badly.
She kept mispronouncing words.
Forgetting lines halfway through paragraphs.
Sometimes anxiety tightened so painfully around her throat she physically couldn’t continue speaking.
Still, she forced herself to keep going.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Because this competition mattered more than she wanted to admit.
It wasn’t really about winning.
It wasn’t even about school.
It was about proving something to herself.
Maybe even surviving the voice inside her head that sounded too much like her mother.
You can’t do it.
You’ll embarrass yourself.
People like you don’t belong there.
Lea heard those sentences every single night while practicing.
Sometimes they became louder than her actual voice.
One evening, she stood near the bedroom window reading her story aloud softly while rain tapped against the glass outside.
The city beyond the neighborhood glowed dimly beneath distant lights while cold wind slipped through the slightly opened window.
Lea held the paper tightly with trembling hands.
“…Sometimes lonely people become invisible long before they disappear…”
She stopped immediately.
“No,” she whispered to herself frustratedly. “Again.”
She started over.
“…Sometimes lonely people—”
The bedroom door suddenly opened without warning.
Lea flinched violently.
Her mother stood there holding folded laundry.
Lea immediately hid the papers against her chest.
“What’s that?”
“…Nothing.”
Her mother frowned slightly before stepping closer and pulling one paper from Lea’s hands before she could stop her.
Her eyes scanned the English paragraphs quickly.
“Storytelling competition?” she muttered.
Lea stayed silent.
“You joined this?”
“…Yes.”
Her mother stared at her quietly for several long seconds before sighing tiredly.
“Lea.”
Her voice softened slightly somehow.
That almost hurt more.
“You can barely even talk confidently during normal conversations.”
Lea lowered her eyes immediately.
“Why would you put yourself through this?”
“I just wanted to try.”
“Try what?” Her mother shook her head tiredly. “Standing on stage embarrassing yourself in front of people?”
The words landed exactly where Lea feared they would.
Painfully.
Like hands pressing directly against bruises already there.
Her mother placed the paper back onto the desk.
“You always dream too high for someone who doesn’t understand her own limits.”
Silence swallowed the room afterward.
Lea stared down at her hands while shame crawled slowly through her chest.
A small part of her wanted to quit immediately.
To disappear from the competition before humiliation became real.
To avoid proving her mother correct.
But another part—
The stubborn hidden part inside her that refused to die completely—
Still whispered quietly:
What if you’re stronger than she thinks?
That night, Lea barely slept.
She lay awake staring at the ceiling while anxiety twisted endlessly inside her stomach.
Every possible disaster replayed inside her head.
Forgetting her lines.
Falling on stage.
People laughing at her accent.
Judges looking disappointed.
Students whispering afterward about how embarrassing she sounded.
At three in the morning, she finally sat up and practiced again beneath dim moonlight while the neighborhood slept outside.
Her voice still shook.
But this time, she didn’t stop.
The morning of the competition arrived too quickly.
Lea stood outside the large school auditorium feeling physically sick.
Hundreds of students from different schools crowded the entrance wearing polished uniforms and confident smiles.
Everyone looked talented.
Prepared.
Comfortable.
Lea suddenly felt painfully small among them.
Like she accidentally wandered somewhere she didn’t belong.
“You okay?”
Lea turned quickly.
Mrs. Sari stood beside her holding a clipboard and warm coffee.
Lea forced a weak smile.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
Mrs. Sari laughed softly.
“That usually means you care.”
Lea looked down at the speech paper trembling slightly inside her hands.
“What if I forget everything?”
“Then you breathe and continue.”
“What if people laugh?”
Mrs. Sari’s expression softened immediately.
“Then let them be cruel.”
She paused gently before adding:
“You still deserve to take up space.”
The sentence settled deep inside Lea’s chest.
You still deserve to take up space.
Nobody had ever told her that before.
Not once.
Most of her life felt spent apologizing for existing too loudly.
For feeling too much.
For wanting too much.
Inside the auditorium, bright stage lights burned against the dark ceiling while judges sat quietly near the front row.
Contestants were called one by one.
Lea listened nervously as others delivered flawless speeches and emotional stories in beautiful English.
Some students sounded almost professional.
The more she listened, the more panic spread inside her body.
She didn’t belong here.
She wasn’t good enough.
Her mother was right.
“Contestant number thirty-two. Lea.”
Her heart nearly stopped.
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Too loud.
Still, somehow, her legs carried her toward the stage.
The microphone waited beneath blinding white lights.
Lea swallowed hard while staring toward the audience.
Hundreds of faces blurred together in the darkness.
Her hands shook visibly.
For one terrifying second, her mind went completely blank.
Nothing.
No words.
No breathing.
Just fear.
Then—
She remembered the nights spent practicing beside her bedroom window.
The notebooks filled with stories nobody read.
The loneliness she survived quietly for years.
The feeling of becoming invisible inside her own home.
And suddenly…
The fear became smaller than the story she wanted to tell.
Lea took one slow shaking breath.
Then began speaking.
Her voice trembled badly at first.
But sentence by sentence, something slowly shifted.
The words stopped feeling memorized.
They became real.
Alive.
Lea spoke about loneliness.
About quiet sadness people ignored because it looked harmless.
About children learning to hide pain so well adults called them “mature.”
Every emotion she buried for years slipped naturally into the story.
Not performed.
Felt.
The auditorium became completely silent.
Not bored silence.
Listening silence.
For the first time in her entire life, people weren’t overlooking her.
They were hearing her.
Actually hearing her.
Lea’s fear slowly disappeared beneath the rhythm of her own voice.
Her hands stopped shaking.
Her chest loosened.
She forgot about the judges.
Forgot about embarrassment.
Forgot about herself entirely.
All that remained was the story.
And the ache inside it.
By the end, her voice cracked slightly during the final sentence.
Then silence filled the room for one long second before applause suddenly erupted everywhere.
Lea froze.
Her chest tightened painfully.
People were clapping for her.
Not politely.
Not out of obligation.
Genuinely.
Some students even stood.
Lea felt tears burn unexpectedly behind her eyes.
As she walked offstage shakily, Mrs. Sari grabbed both her hands immediately.
“You did amazing.”
Lea looked close to crying.
“No,” she whispered weakly. “I made mistakes.”
Mrs. Sari smiled warmly.
“And still moved an entire room.”
Hours later, contestants gathered nervously while winners were announced.
Lea sat quietly in the back convinced she had no chance anymore.
There were too many talented people.
Too many confident voices.
Then suddenly—
“Second place…”
The announcer read her name.
For one disoriented moment, Lea genuinely thought she imagined it.
The auditorium blurred around her as applause filled the room again.
Students clapped while she slowly stood from her seat.
Second place.
Out of hundreds.
Her legs trembled walking toward the stage.
The trophy felt cold and heavy against her hands when they gave it to her.
Real.
For one brief beautiful moment, pride bloomed inside her chest stronger than self-doubt.
Maybe she wasn’t talentless after all.
Maybe her voice deserved space in the world too.
That evening, Lea walked home carefully holding the trophy against her chest while soft rain began falling across the city.
Her heart still felt warm.
Excited.
Nervous.
Part of her kept imagining her mother smiling proudly for once.
Maybe this achievement would finally be enough.
Maybe this time things would feel different.
When she arrived home, her mother sat at the dining table folding laundry while television light flickered softly across the room.
Lea stepped inside quietly.
“I won second place,” she whispered.
Her mother looked up briefly.
“In what?”
“The storytelling competition.”
Lea carefully lifted the trophy slightly.
For one second, silence filled the room.
Then her mother nodded once.
“Second?”
The warmth inside Lea’s chest weakened slightly.
“…Yeah.”
Her mother returned to folding clothes.
“Well, at least you didn’t completely embarrass yourself.”
That was all.
No smile.
No congratulations.
Nothing.
Lea stood there silently while disappointment spread slowly through her body like cold water.
A tiny cruel thought whispered inside her mind.
Why do I still keep hoping?
Later that night, she sat beside her bedroom window holding the trophy beneath dim moonlight.
Outside, the neighborhood slept peacefully beneath soft rain.
Lea traced her fingers slowly across the engraved metal.
Cold.
Smooth.
Real.
Proof that for one afternoon, her voice mattered somewhere.
Then slowly, she opened her notebook and began writing.
Today hundreds of strangers believed in my voice more than my own mother ever did.
She paused.
Tears blurred the page slightly.
Then continued carefully.
I don’t know whether that feeling is healing me…
Her hand trembled softly before finishing the sentence.
…or breaking my heart even more.
- Writer
