Through the storm of shrill screaming and uproarious laughter, I drove my hands into my backpack and pulled out a gray folder. Carefully opening the folds, I scanned paper after paper in search of a crisp, stapled packet. My balance, along with my thoughts, began to falter as the school bus continued to make abrupt stops and jagged turns left and right. I slipped the packet out of the folder’s grasp and handed it to my friend. With that simple exchange, I traded my life’s work for anxiety and anguish.

My heart, soul, and passion were printed on a mere 14 pages in fine, black ink. Mentally, I was building walls of stone and brick to surround my fragile spirit in protection. If it were to be crushed at this moment, it would be irreparable.

I followed the movement of my friends’ nimble eyes reading word for word, breezing through each line. As page after page was turned, the only thing my mind could truly focus on was interpreting her expressions. Sometimes her eyebrows lifted, or her jaw would dwindle lightly. With each modest change of character, my desire to view her imagination grew evermore.

Academically, I was often praised for my ability to craft and write essays above expectations. However, what my friend held in her hand wasn’t proofread or edited. It was an undiluted, raw story — perhaps the purest example of my writing yet. I practically handed her a piece of glass and hoped that she wouldn’t shatter it.

A tsunami of dread was almost guaranteed to crash over my heart as she flipped over to the last page. It was as if, perfectly timed to that precise moment, the bus suddenly became hushed and the jerking ceased. My friend peered up from the papers and her mouth simply gaped at me, whether in awe or discontent shock.

My eyes met with hers and awaited her feedback, but no words were exchanged. Her expression might as well have been written in an incomprehensible language. Only two sheer words were just enough to impair the silence and tension that was intertwined with the space between us.

“Read this,” she murmured to a girl sitting behind me, passing the packet further from my embrace. Once more, I filed into the waiting room for my own story, anticipating the results that were my friends’ opinions.

The story was tossed around the backend of the vehicle like a game of hot potato. Each sheet of paper had lost its brisk sense, now on the verge of crumbling and tearing. It was an utter reflection of my own certainty. Like the ocean, it swayed back and forth without end. I allowed myself to take one deep breath, then confront the possible mayhem my writing may have stirred.

If I ever saw a shooting star, I would wish upon it to have a documented film of every word, every phrase, every minuscule detail my friends gushed. The vexing wave that once towered just above my heart disintegrated into butterflies that now fluttered around in my stomach.

Opposed to giving me harsh criticism, they applauded me. They filled the air around them with nothing except empowering and elating comments. If my heart was an unscathed match, they transformed it into a blazing bonfire of determination. Amongst themselves, they talked about my work as if it were an award-winning novel.

As I stepped off the bus I could no longer hear the ear-piercing shrieks or the wailing of kids on the bus, only the praise and cheers of my ever-growing writing ambition.