echo I
There was no root she could dig up, no moment to blame. Her introverted self didn’t grow out of cruelty or neglect. It simply existed — like air or gravity — always pressing in, never loud, always there.
She wasn’t afraid of people. She could hold herself just well, expressing her opinions with clarity and confidence. She could stand up and volunteer herself to do things she desired. She could ace interviews with her wittiness and sharp tongue. She could do almost everything she set her mind to, but only almost.
She had always clung to excellence like a lifeline. She had never done anything she didn’t trust, or didn’t have faith that the rewards reaped were worth the pain, her carefully scripted life might be the one main contributing factor in shaping her into the person she is today.
Always safe, practical, no risks.
Since she was young, she craved more than praise —she needed certainty. The clean symmetry of top scores, the quiet prestige of certificates filed in tidy folders, the controlled triumph of her numerous achievements throughout 19 years of her life. She had built herself inside the walls of discipline, brick by brick, note by note, grade by grade.
Success became her sanctuary. Of course, she too enjoyed the applause, but mainly for safety—because the rhythm of hard work and results was the only thing she could trust. She knew how to prepare, how to perform, how to win. She never truly came out of her shell, constantly taking shelter in her comfort zone, her rigidness in ensuring every success held her down, smothering her potential discoveries and talents.
And so the idea of letting go—of walking away from the cold, clean lines of academia and into the soft, uncertain blur of something creative—felt like asking her to step off a ledge. She liked the distinct difference between white and black, in her world, there was no grey. If she deemed something unworthy, it was a black and everything else within her grasp and control was a definite white, she left no chance for dilemmas and uncertainties.
It would have been way easier if she had not admitted to herself that she liked the creative fields more, much more than she ever had liked the sciences and facts fields. Since day one when she entered the science stream due to the stability evident there, her life screamed of control and comfort, but was she satisfied? Was this truly what she desired? Is this even her?
There were no grades in cinematography. No scales in cooking. No way to calculate if she was good enough.
Just… feeling. Just risk. Just the terrifying thought of being seen without armor. Naked in the middle of a courtroom. Scrutinised, scanned and judged. By another person’s opinion and intuition, which was simply subjective and possibly unfair. There wasn’t a clean cut correct or wrong unlike exam papers, you earn marks for a correct answer, but in the world of scriptwriting, filming, culinary, it all depends on whether your audience liked your presentation, your perspective, whether any directors or companies took an interest in your work, any investors spotted your potential and were willing to bet on your success. In other words, in the world of creativity, you’re constantly drifting across a deep sea of grey.
She didn’t like the notion of stepping into an unknown world, unravelling a new part of life never known to her, embarking on a journey of mystery and uncertainty.
And she didn’t know if she could survive all these indefinites.
II
“Lizzy, what do you want to be when you grow up? A doctor? Or an engineer?” Her closest friends suddenly cued her during lunch break.
She almost choked, her eyes widening ever so slightly. It wasn’t that she didn’t have answers, she had too many. They were crowding behind her teeth, slamming into each other. Culinary. Filming. Screenwriting. A hundred what-ifs flooded her brain, she couldn’t and wouldn’t acknowledge what she can’t even convince herself to start.
“Actually, I’m still thinking about it.” Her voice as soft as ash, a gentle timid whisper amidst the buzzling campus cafeteria.
“Honestly, I would say with your current results and achievement you could easily become a doctor. I thought you mentioned a few years back you were interested in pursuing medicine?” One of her close friends, Patricia gazed at her quizzically.
“What if I became a screenwriter and a part time chef?” She asked half-teasingly, her expression easy and relaxed, a stark contrast to her racing heart, unease unfurling in her chest.
“But you’ll be throwing all these years’ of hard work away! Art isn’t reliable, Liz. You know better than this.” Patricia tsked, sighing at Elizabeth. “To be frank, you aren’t all that artsy, Lizzy.”
“I know. I’m just pulling your leg. Don’t worry, Pat.” She laid her arm soothingly on her friend’s, a small smile on her face. No one noticed how she laughed dryly under her breath later on, the sound of a shattered fragile heart, crisp and clear, the sparkle in her eyes dimming as she blinked away the prickling.
“Mummy, Daddy, what would you think if I wanted to switch to arts?” It wasn’t that she had never tried to garner support from the two greatest role examples in her life. And it wasn’t that her parents forbid her either, but the kind of silence that followed her inquiry said more than words ever could. The pauses after she brought it up. The sighs that weren’t meant to be heard. The long looks across the dinner table when she mentioned anything that didn’t sound like a “real” career.
“We’re not stopping you,” they’d say, voices carefully measured. “We were just thinking art is unstable, maybe you should decide when things are more certain. Perhaps after your pre-university course?”
“Okay.”
Each time, she kept her head down and low, her voice forlorn and subdued. Each time, it chipped away at her. Each time, she felt a part of her crumble. But still she refused to look them in the eye and voiced her determination. She was afraid, afraid that she was asking for too much, afraid that it was a wrong decision, afraid that switching would mean she would be loved less. Her internal conflict consumed her whole, the sudden rush of adrenaline stopped abruptly, like how water wiped off the flames, she felt her resolve fraying at the ends, strands cut and suddenly she was staring into a black hole, clueless and helpless. Tired.
She knew what she wanted, but she was giving it all to push herself to walk towards the opposite direction. Rebellious to her own true self. The traitor of her own life. The betrayal that cut the deepest, through the skin, down to the bones.
III
Staring at her laptop screen, she read through her pieces again and again. Her passion. Her interest. Her love.
Every time she told herself this was it, this time she’d choose what she wanted—those doubts rushed back in like a tide, crashing over her resolve.
What if they’re right? What if art isn’t for me either? What if I’m just imagining the version of me that could handle all this? What happens if I choose the wrong path?
No one stopped her from entertaining herself. She could submit her entries to as many competitions she desired. She could watch culinary videos, shop for groceries and cook what she wanted. She could do anything she favoured during her pastimes, but she knew that was because everyone judged those as a bonus plus point to her future career. Imagine being a doctor while being able to write scripts for actors in Grade A movies, or imagine being an engineer and hosting culinary shows on popular TV channels or working part time as a Michelin Chef. No one thought she was serious with them, assuming that she was just an all rounder, learning everything, excelling in all fields. And she knew all these too, deep down in her heart.
But she wasn’t sure if she could. She knew her struggles when it came to the fine line of academia. Whenever she made herself study, she felt there were four iron walls closing in—
— one for each subject, Biology, Chemistry, Physics and Mathematics. Each subject bristling with diagrams, equations and laws she could follow but never feel. She felt like a machine bulldozing through the subjects, enduring the pain rather than learning, surviving rather than living. She felt so envious towards those who could truly embrace the subjects, talk about them with passion and love, when she felt like it was torture.
She memorised enzyme pathways while blinking back tears from tired eyes.
She solved differential equations like she was tracing someone else’s steps in the snow.
She forced herself to understand redox reactions when her mind was aching to be somewhere else.
She was so drained.
But when she edited films… Time bent.
There wasn’t a right answer, no mark schemes. Just feeling. Just instinct. She could spend hours trimming a single frame, layering soft piano under ambient street sounds, cutting to a silence that said more than dialogue ever could.
And she wouldn’t feel drained — she’d feel awake. Like her thoughts were colour instead of code.
Writing scripts came with no pressure to be correct— only honesty and unwavering passion. Filming wasn’t work. It was relieving her. It was about expressing her inner self.
She knew the formulas. She could recall the facts. But creativity was the only thing that ever made her feel fully alive. And it terrified her that what made her come alive… was the very thing everyone around her told her to keep on the shelf.
Once, she thought she wanted to tell someone, she would feel the courage build like breath in her chest—rising, urgent, ready to be released——but just before she could speak, just before she could step forward, she’d collapse back into the silence, her own fear sealing her mouth.
The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. Her teeth let go of her swollen lips, one corner oozing blood. She had accidentally bitten it too hard. The pain sent a small shock through her frail body like electricity, gritting her teeth, she pressed submit. Maybe a little too hard.
But the deed was done.
IV
She did not look at her phone all day. After all, she had some studying to do, and while she was relieved that she had finally made a monumental change to her life, but now that hours have passed, she was stressed again.
Will there be people out there sharing the same thoughts? Will people take an interest in my work? Will this bring about a turnover curve in my life?
It was late night when she switched on her Instagram again, the sudden rush of notifications popping off her phone blinded her. She was so shocked as she scrolled down the endless lines of comments down her newest posts.
This looks so delicious.
You’ve got to be some kind of artist.
Your clips speak volumes of life.
This touched deep in my heart.
We rarely see pieces with this kind of restraint and pacing from someone your age. If you’re ever interested in exploring this further, we have a youth mentorship lab this summer. I’d love to nominate you.
We’re from the Youth Film Competition, would you be interested in joining our upcoming event?
We’re from Jayden’s Company, we’re interested in hiring you as a film editor as well as screenplay writer. We’ve reviewed all your posts and documents, we’ll love the idea of collaborating with someone so talented and with such wild imaginations. Please contact via your email account, we’re looking forward to hearing from you.
I’m a freelance editor. I’m interested to collaborate with you.
I’m from Cookery Production, please contact us via your email account. We’ll love to have you join the newest episode’s production.
And still there were many more comments, offering support, job opportunities, mentorship programme opportunities and so on. There was tons and tons of recognition, appreciation for her hard work and for the first time, she let herself dream further than just posting these submissions on her accounts. She let herself imagine being a winner in international filming competitions, writing scripts for world renowned actors, participating in culinary competitions, hosting cooking shows with other Michelin Chefs. She smiled as tears streamed down her face. She tasted the saltiness of her tears, she was still lost in a maze, but now at least she knew which were the paths that could lead to a life she desired, which were the ones she could possibly unleash her talents and passion, which ones could get her to the places she craved to be.
Tonight, she could sleep with a light heart. Tonight, she could go to sleep feeling hopeful. Tonight, she might even have a sweet dream.
V
“Best Original Screenplay—— Elisabeth Jean Miller!”
“Best Film Presentation—— Elisabeth Jean Miller!”
Her name echoed in the vast auditorium. Elisabeth rose from her seat gracefully, both hands holding out her gown made of thousands of shiny sequins. Slowly she glided through the crowd, her mind overflowing with emotions and thoughts. The walk to the stage was long. She passed rows of producers, actors, directors. She smiled at them, nodding in respect and appreciation as many of them were her teachers, her guides, her mentors as she embarked on this journey.
The applause was thunderous, yet she could hear her own heart pounding against her chest at a rapid pace.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
I can’t believe it. I did it. The nineteen year old me would’ve never believed this.
She took a deep breath. She’d once trembled just to upload a silent short film.
Now the world knows her name.
With trembling hands, she took both trophies into her arms. The microphone was waiting. For a second she panicked.
What should she say? She wasn’t one of those who trained since young for this day. She didn’t have a whole motivating story to share.
Tell the truth.
“There was a time,” she said, voice steady now, “when I thought art wasn’t stable. When I thought it was a mere illusion.”
A pause. The room leaned in.
“But then I realised it should never be art to bring about stability. It was our talent, our hard work, our determination, inspiration, perspiration that could make these come alive. It is us who defines what is stable for us. Whether art, whether science, listen to yourself, trust your inner voice, then go for it and don’t look back. You’ll be amazed what heights you could reach one day.”
Applause again — not polite this time. Real. Alive.
“Once again, thank you!” She smiled — not for the cameras. For herself. For the girl she used to be. The one who didn’t think she could be anything in the world of art. Or culinary.
But now, the world learns her name. The audience liked her masterpieces, liked her cooking shows, and liked her dishes.
As of now, she has given a lot. Yet, unambiguously she still had so much more to say.
There and then, she broke the cage of distrust and blossomed. It’s finally her era.
Written By: Di En
Edited By: Zhen Li
