Midway through the first day, another standout performer rose: Mara Devine of East Hollow Academy.
She wore a long grey coat, and her eyes were embers in a world of ash.
"The Elegy of Things Unsaid"
I didn't tell you when you left
That your shadow stayed longer than your body.
I didn't say how your toothbrush
Broke my heart just by still being there.
I didn't cry when you called me a phase.
But I cried at the shoes you never wore out.
Isn't that strange?
How love exits like smoke—
Still in the air, but nowhere to hold.
I didn't scream.
I whispered, then swallowed it.
But now, I write you in lowercase.
Now, I bury you in metaphor.
Now, I let my poems forget your name.
And it feels like peace.
Almost.
Some audience members stood. Langston crossed his arms, expression unreadable.
---
After the lunch break, a surprise wildcard emerged: Jonas Adler from a small countryside school. No fanfare, no entourage.
He stepped onto the stage, a simple boy in a frayed coat.
"My Brother the Lighthouse"
He didn't speak much, my brother.
But his hands were always busy—
Fixing, folding, holding back waves.
They called him quiet.
I called him shore.
The night he died, I didn't cry.
I just walked the dock
And tried to find the light he always kept on.
Now I write,
Not because I know what to say,
But because silence feels like betrayal.
So here's a poem
For the boy who shone
Even when no one noticed.
Tears welled in Kate's eyes. Even Michael sat still.
---
As the sun dipped and the rain continued to hum against the roof, Langston's group remained backstage, quiet.
Michael muttered, "Tomorrow, we have to out-bleed that."
Andrew looked down at his notebook. "Then we better bleed deep."
Langston finally stood. "Tomorrow, your voices carry. Not just through this room, but into every memory that made you. Let them hear not who you are—but what it took to survive it."
And they walked out of the hall that night with hearts heavy, ink ready, and the weight of unsaid things pressing against their chests like unspoken confessions.
Day two began with heavier rain and heavier hearts. The venue filled faster than the first day—word had spread about the caliber of the performances. Judges whispered among themselves. Professors tightened ties. Some students held notebooks like shields, as if what they'd written might not be enough.
Langston's group sat backstage. Today, it was their turn.
Michael bounced his knee rapidly. Emma fidgeted with her sleeves. Kate sat with her spine straight, her eyes closed, mouthing her poem silently like a prayer.
Langston stepped in. "Today, let them feel it. Don't aim to impress—aim to haunt."
They nodded. Kate rose first.
---
Kate's Performance – "Inheritance"
Kate stood alone in the center of the vast stage, illuminated by a single white spotlight. Her delivery was softer than expected, but her words rang with clarity, as if each syllable had weight.
"I was raised on almosts— Almost loved, almost chosen, On stairwells where my mother cried And silence held me tighter than arms.
I am the daughter of the overlooked, Of tea left steeping too long, Of hand-me-down dreams, Of what's left after choices are made.
They taught me how to smile at corners, How to never speak first, How to wait for apologies that never came.
But I carry that silence like flint.
Watch me strike it. Let it light my bones.
I will not ask to be chosen. I will choose myself."
When she finished, there was a moment of complete silence—then slow, resounding applause. One of the judges wiped her eye. Another jotted notes with shaking hands.
Langston's mouth lifted in the faintest smile.
---
Backstage.
Andrew met Kate as she came off stage.
"You killed it," he said.
Kate smiled faintly. "It's not about killing. It's about surviving."
---
Emma took the stage with a slower pace. She looked smaller beneath the lights. Then she began.
"Portrait of a Girl in Autumn"
["They paint girls in spring— Petal-skinned, light-laughed, Blooming for anyone who stops long enough to stare.
But I am not spring. I am autumn— Too bright, too burning, too brittle.
I fall in pieces. In quiet October ways.
They try to gather me, Call me fragile, But I was never made for hands.
I was made for wind. For distance. For the ache of everything leaving.
And if I love, I love like dusk— Soft, but certain.
A fading that leaves color in its wake."]
Emma's voice cracked slightly on the last stanza. Whether intentional or not, it worked—many in the crowd leaned forward.
Applause followed, polite at first, then stronger.
But Langston watched her with narrowed eyes. "Don't fall into your delivery," he said later. "You have the words. Now believe them."
Emma nodded, biting her lip.
---
Later in the afternoon.
Two more schools presented their strongest performers. From Valemont College, a girl named Inez Leclair performed a piece titled "An Elegy for My Twin Who Never Was." Her delivery was searing, heartbreaking.
["I shared a womb with silence, And the emptiness taught me my name."]
Even Michael clapped after she finished.
Then came Thatcher Grey, a rising star from Whitridge, who gave a furious spoken-word storm titled "Pomegranate Hands" about inherited violence.
["My father's rage grew under my fingernails And I've been digging it out ever since."]
Thunderous applause followed.
---
Backstage — Tension Mounts
Langston approached the group as they regrouped in the lounge. "You're holding ground. But tomorrow, it's Michael and Andrew. You are our finishers. The weight lands there."
Michael ran a hand over his scalp. "About time."
Andrew simply nodded, though his fingers gripped his notebook tighter.
---
Late Evening
Outside in the rain, under the auditorium's stone overhang, Kate and Andrew stood side by side. Their coats damp, their eyes toward the dark sky.
"You ready?" she asked.
"No," he said honestly. "But I've never been ready for anything important."
She smiled. "That means it matters."
"Yeah," he murmured. "It does."
They didn't say more. But when they walked back inside, they did so shoulder to shoulder—no distance between them.