The world felt a little different after Talent Night.
There was an odd but pleasant shift in how people looked at me now—students nodding in hallways, others stopping me to say "I loved your poem" or "you're the girl who spoke about being invisible, right?"
It was surreal.
But nothing felt more surreal than what happened on a cloudy Wednesday afternoon when Professor Williams, my English mentor, asked me to stay behind after class.
"I have a freshman who's… gifted but reserved," she said, adjusting her glasses. "Reminds me of someone I know."
I blinked. "Me?"
She smiled. "Exactly. Would you be willing to mentor her?"
Her name was Lila Monroe.
She had a small frame, long braids she always kept tucked behind her ears, and the most expressive eyes—eyes that said I've seen more than I say.
She was quiet when I first met her in the library.
"I heard you're like… the poetry girl," she said, barely above a whisper.
"That's me," I replied with a gentle smile.
She fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie. "I write too. I just… don't show anyone."
"Oh," I nodded. "I used to be just like you."
Lila looked up. "Used to?"
"I changed. Or maybe I just stopped hiding."
Over the next few weeks, Lila and I met once or twice a week.
She'd bring small poems scrawled on napkins, old receipts, even her palm once.
And I'd read them with care.
"This metaphor here—'my voice is a locked piano'—that's genius," I told her during one session.
Lila flushed. "Really?"
"Really," I said. "You're not invisible, Lila. You just haven't turned on your spotlight yet."
That became our little mantra: Turn on the spotlight.
We laughed, rewrote her pieces, and slowly—very slowly—she started reading them aloud.
One afternoon while I was helping Lila rehearse in an empty classroom, James peeked in with Sophie.
"She's got talent," James said, impressed.
Lila practically melted behind her notebook. "Is that… James from open mic night?"
Sophie gave me a smirk. "She's got a little crush."
"Focus!" I laughed, gently teasing Lila, who buried her face.
But truth be told, I was proud.
Proud that she was brave enough to let her words out.
Proud that I was becoming the kind of person I used to need.
The Literature Club was hosting a mini poetry night, and I encouraged—okay, gently bullied—Lila into signing up.
She was nervous. Shaking. Pale.
"I can't," she said backstage.
"You can," I whispered. "You've already spoken. This is just a louder room."
So she went out there.
She read her piece called "Paper Skin", a poem about being fragile but not broken.
By the time she was done, the room was silent. Not out of indifference—but awe.
And then, the applause came.
I could see tears shimmer in her eyes.
"I did it," she said, rushing back to me.
"You did," I said, pulling her into a tight hug.
That night, as I walked back to the dorms alone, I reflected on everything.
I had once been the girl sitting in the back row, hoping no one saw me.
Now… I was helping someone else find her spotlight.
Growth doesn't always feel like fireworks. Sometimes it feels like standing still and realizing you're not where you started.
Sophie met me in the hallway with snacks.
"Mentor mode activated?" she grinned.
I nodded. "She reminded me of myself."
"Well," Sophie said, looping her arm around mine, "then you better remind her that girls like us don't stay in the dark forever."
In Lila's eyes, I saw my past.
In her voice, I saw her future.
And in that moment, I realized something simple but powerful:
I had become someone's light.