I still remember that day in secondary school like it was yesterday.
Our English teacher asked us to write a composition titled “Had I Known.” At the time, it sounded like just another classwork—pen, paper, imagination. But when I started writing, something shifted. I didn’t know why, but the words came heavy. Regret. Loss. Lessons learned too late. I poured emotions into that paper far beyond my age, writing as if I had lived a life I hadn’t yet lived.
When the scripts were returned, most people got their usual remarks. But on mine, my teacher didn’t write a score. She wrote just two words:
*“See me.”*
My heart dropped.
When I went to meet her after class, she looked at me quietly and asked,
“Did this story happen to you?”
In that moment, I realized how powerful words could be. I smiled nervously and said, *“No ma… it was just imagination.”* She nodded, still studying my face, and said nothing more—but the look she gave me told me she didn’t fully believe it.
That day stayed with me.
It was the first time I understood that storytelling wasn’t just about writing—it was about connection. About making someone feel somethings real, even when the story didn’t come from lived experience. That little moment in secondary school showed me that words have weight, and when used honestly, they can move hearts—even surprise the writer themselves.
Till today, I think about that script, those two words, and the teacher who saw something in my writing before I fully saw it myself.
Sometimes, the things we call *imagination* are just emotions waiting for the right voice.
