TILLY & I

I was supposed to write this blog last Monday night. But the snail inside me didn’t come out of its shell to write. Just because of the gap—I hadn’t written for a long time (in fact, I can say I was waiting for quality content)—it still took me one whole week to put my thoughts into words.

Until a year ago, I really didn’t know what a “Tall Tale” was. I knew the words “tall” and “tale” individually—but not together. Only after I joined Toastmasters did I come to know that a tall tale is an exaggerated story told as if it were true. That quietly fascinated me and intrigued me to write something out of the box, something I could also use for my project speeches.

What motivated me to write a tall tale was the moment I moved to Singapore. I’m the kind of person who won’t get sleep at night even if I change the cot I usually sleep in (adaptation problem!). Now imagine changing not just the cot—but the country—to be with the love of your life.

Just a few days after moving to Singapore, I had set up the home—wardrobe arranged, routine settled, groceries filled, fueled myself with Milo—but the drilling sound (some construction work must have been going on) from the neighbouring apartment was getting into my head as deeply as possible. The quality of the sound—noise, in fact—was like hell.

I wanted to go out. I searched Google Maps—Sengkang Riverside, just 1 km away. So I went for a walk.

I saw a lot—smiles from strangers, an elderly couple walking together, toddlers in strollers pushed by their mothers, teenagers cycling, a few people fishing by the riverside, touch-me-not plants, massive construction work nearby (and so the sound was just enough to tear my eardrum and break my skull). I kept walking farther.

And after all that, what caught my attention were the turtles by the riverside. That view from the bridge intrigued me to write what follows below:

A Tall Tale—exaggerated and well served.

It was one of those dull, dragging days. I had just moved to a new place.

The rooms were neat, the streets were busy—but inside me, everything felt… quiet.

I hadn’t made any friends yet, and I was beginning to wonder if I ever would.

So I went for a walk—no destination in mind, just me and my thoughts.And that’s when I found the riverside. A soft breeze danced across the water, and the birds above chirped like they were having a mid-morning gossip.

That’s when I saw her—Tilly.

There she was, sitting like royalty on a big smooth pebble behind the bushes. Her shell caught the sunlight, and I swear—it shimmered like it held a thousand tiny stars. It sparkled, gleamed, and in that golden hour glow, I could even see a soft halo rounding her head.

I blinked. Was it just the sun? Or was I the only one who could see it?

And those eyes—deep, wise, and unusual. Thin red lines flowed from the corners of her eyes, trailing into her shell like ancient rivers drawn on a map.

It made me wonder: What kind of turtle is she? What kind of world is she carrying on her back?

Tilly didn’t make a grand first impression. She just… existed. Quiet. Still.

But something about her made me pause. Watch. Wonder.

She dove into the river with the grace of a synchronized swimmer, floated with her shell like a miniature boat, then clambered back to her pebble. She shook off the water dramatically—like a diva turtle after a red-carpet swim.

And I smiled.

For the first time in days, I really smiled.

That’s when she side-eyed me.

Not in a “Who’s this human?” kind of way—but in a “I see what you’re thinking” kind of way.

Wait…What???

Could she read my thoughts?

She looked right at me, and with a cheeky grin, she blinked—slowly, knowingly.

That’s when I knew—Tilly was no ordinary turtle. She wasn’t just a river-dweller. She was my companion.

From that day on, I visited her almost every afternoon. She became my source of laughter, stories, and yes—even current affairs.

Tilly would tell me about the children who came to watch her stunts. How they clapped and giggled when she back-floated, sprayed water with a twist, and did her famous cheeky blink. She had fans, you know. Little fans with snack boxes and big dreams.

They adored her. And so did I.

Time passed gently. One afternoon, I was at home doing the usual—folding laundry, fighting the urge to overthink—when I suddenly felt a strange pull.

Not fear. Not anxiety.

It felt like… someone really needed me. Not in a world-saving way. In the you’re-missed-right-now way.

It was Tilly.

She didn’t have a phone, of course. But she had something better—telepathy.

I dropped everything and ran to the riverside. And there she was.

Perched on her royal pebble, wearing that familiar grin. I stood on the bridge—our spot.

She looked up at me, head tilted, as if to say, “Where’ve you been, hooman? I’ve been sending brain signals all day!”

We didn’t say much, but we said everything.

We watched the birds glide past the high-rises. The river shimmered like it had been waiting for us to notice.

Tilly, my sunshine-shelled friend, stretched her neck just enough to catch a glimpse of the open sky. Her shell gleamed under the fading sun, as though the stars themselves had gathered to rest on her back.

In that moment, I realized—Her living in her shell… inspired me to come out of mine.

And if you walk by the river and see a cheeky blink from a pebble… you’ve met my friend!