The Empty Seat — Seeing It From Every Side
Sarah was certain she knew exactly what had happened, and she was furious about it. For three weeks she and Mia had been planning a birthday sleepover, counting down the days. Then, an hour before it was meant to start, Mia sent a single short text: *Can't come. Sorry.* No explanation. No phone call. Just an empty seat where her best friend should have been.
By Monday, Sarah had built the whole story in her head. Mia didn't care. Mia had got a better offer. Mia had been pretending to be her friend all along. She walked into school with her jaw set, rehearsing the cold silence she planned to give her. When Mia waved from across the quad, Sarah looked straight through her and kept walking. From one point of view, it felt completely justified.
It was Sarah's older brother, Jordan, who slowed her down. That evening he found her fuming in the kitchen and listened to the whole story. Then he asked a simple question. "You've told me your side. What do you think her side is?" Sarah scowled. She hadn't thought about Mia having a side at all. As far as she was concerned, there was only one way to see it — hers.
"Try it," Jordan said. "Picture the exact same afternoon, but from where Mia was standing. What might have been going on that you couldn't see?" Reluctantly, Sarah tried. And once she started, the picture refused to stay simple. Maybe something had happened at home. Maybe Mia had been too upset to explain over text. Maybe the short message wasn't coldness at all, but someone barely holding it together. The angry certainty she had carried all day began to loosen its grip.
The next morning, instead of the cold silence she had planned, Sarah walked up to Mia and said quietly, "I was hurt that you didn't come. But I want to understand what happened." Mia's eyes filled instantly. Her parents had told her that night that they were separating, she explained, her voice shaking. She had cancelled because she'd spent the evening crying and couldn't face anyone — and she'd been terrified all weekend that Sarah would hate her for it.
Sarah felt the ground shift beneath her. The story she had been so sure of, the one she had nursed for three whole days, had been almost entirely wrong. If she had followed her first reaction, she would have thrown away a friendship over a version of events that existed only in her own head. She pulled Mia into a hug and told her she was sorry — not for being upset, but for assuming she already knew everything.
Afterwards, Sarah couldn't stop thinking about how close she had come to getting it so wrong. She hadn't had all the facts; she'd only had her own angle, and she had mistaken it for the whole truth. From that day on, whenever she felt the hot rush of being certain about someone, she made herself pause and ask Jordan's question: *What might this look like from where they're standing?* Perspective, she realised, was a kind of superpower — the ability to step out of your own single view and see a situation from every side before deciding what it meant.
Your turn — short-answer questions
- Sarah was "certain she knew exactly what had happened." How did Jordan's question change what she understood about Mia's cancelled sleepover?
- Sarah learned to ask, "What might this look like from where they're standing?" Describe a disagreement or misunderstanding you've had, and explain how seeing it from the other person's viewpoint might change your reaction.
For the classroom
Teacher notes — activities, reflections and assessment for this story.
Discussion: Sarah was completely convinced her version of events was true. What made her so certain, and why can strong feelings make it hard to see another person's perspective?
Activity — The Other Side: Present students with a short conflict scenario and have them write it twice, once from each person's point of view, then discuss what changes.
Activity — Pause and Ask: In pairs, practise Jordan's question — "What might this look like from where they're standing?" — using real, low-stakes disagreements, and share what new possibilities emerge.
Reflection: Think of a time you assumed the worst about someone and later learned you were wrong. What did that teach you about jumping to conclusions?
Assessment — Perspective Piece: Students write a narrative or reflection that tells the same event from two viewpoints, showing how understanding another perspective changed the outcome.
The Benched Striker
Kai was furious. He was the top scorer in his Year 10 basketball team, and yet for the biggest game of the season, Coach Nguyen had left him on the bench for most of the first half. Kai sat with his arms crossed, certain he knew exactly what was going on. The coach didn't rate him. The coach was playing favourites. The coach was throwing the game just to prove a point. By half-time, Kai had decided he was being treated unfairly, and he was ready to quit the team.
In the change room he was about to storm up to the coach when the Perspective Powerman stopped him. "You're very sure you know why you're on the bench," the Powerman said. "But you only have your own view. What might the game look like from where the coach is standing?" Kai frowned. He hadn't considered that the coach might have a reason at all.
"Try it," the Powerman said. "Same game, but through his eyes." Reluctantly, Kai thought about it. He remembered that two of the younger players were nervous and needed court time to grow. He remembered the coach mentioning, weeks ago, that he was saving Kai's energy for a full-strength final quarter. He remembered that the other team had a tall defender marking him tightly. Seen from the coach's side, the bench started to look less like a punishment and more like a plan.
Instead of exploding, Kai walked over and asked, calmly, "Coach, can I ask why I've been off the court?" Coach Nguyen looked almost relieved to be asked. He explained exactly what Kai had begun to guess: he was resting his star player for a hard final push and giving the younger boys experience while the game was still close. "I need you fresh when it matters most," he said. "Can you trust me on that?"
Kai felt his anger drain away, replaced by something like embarrassment. The story he had been so certain of — the unfair coach, the favouritism, the insult — had existed only in his own head. In the final quarter, rested and focused, he came off the bench and scored the points that won the game. Afterwards he thought about how close he had come to quitting over a version of events that was simply wrong.
Kai realised that being certain was not the same as being right. He had mistaken his own single angle for the whole truth. From then on, whenever the hot rush of certainty rose up in him, he made himself pause and ask the Powerman's question first: what might this look like from where they're standing? Perspective, he understood, meant stepping out of his own view long enough to see the whole court.
Your turn — short-answer questions
- Kai was "certain" the coach was being unfair. How did imagining the game from the coach's point of view change what he understood — and what he did next?
- The Perspective Powerman asks, "What might this look like from where they're standing?" Describe a time you were sure someone had treated you unfairly, and explain how seeing their side might change the story.
For the classroom
Teacher notes — activities, reflections and assessment for this story.
Discussion: Kai was about to quit over a story that existed "only in his own head." Why can strong emotions like anger make us so certain we're right?
Activity — Through Their Eyes: Give students a conflict scenario and have them write the coach's or teacher's private reasons, then compare with the complaining student's view.
Activity — Ask, Don't Assume: Practise replacing an accusation with a calm question ("Can I ask why…?") in role-play, and discuss how it changes the conversation.
Reflection: Think of a decision by an adult that felt unfair at the time. Looking back, can you now see a reason you couldn't see then?
Bilal and the Story He Didn't Print
Bilal had edited the school paper since Year 8, and he was proud that it printed things some people would rather it didn't. So when the Year 10 camp was cancelled three weeks out with nothing but a two-line notice on the portal, he smelled a story. Families had already paid deposits. Nobody had explained anything. By Friday he had written the sharpest piece of his life — eight hundred words under the headline WHO CANCELLED OUR CAMP?, with the deputy principal Ms Cadman named in the second sentence and a closing line about a school that treated its students as an afterthought. His mate Hugo read it twice and said it was the best thing the paper had ever run.
He was laying out the front page in the library after school when the Perspective Powerman appeared at the end of the desk, reading the screen over his shoulder. "That's a strong piece of writing," the Powerman said. "It's also one chair's worth of the truth." Bilal bristled. He had the notice, the dates, the deposits, and about forty furious classmates. "She owes us an explanation," he said. "Maybe she does," the Powerman agreed. "But asking for one and printing an accusation are not the same move, and only one of them can be taken back."
The Powerman pulled up a chair, then two more, and set them in a small triangle. "Three chairs," he said. "The first is yours — you've sat in it all week. The second belongs to the person you're writing about. The third belongs to whoever is affected by this and hasn't been mentioned once." Bilal looked at the empty third chair and could not think who would sit in it. "That's usually the sign you need it most," the Powerman said. "Sit in all three before you print. If your story survives the third chair, it's ready."
So on Monday, Bilal did something that felt much harder than writing eight hundred angry words: he knocked on Ms Cadman's door and asked, plainly, what had happened. The camp company had gone into administration a fortnight earlier. The site had no operator, no first aid cover and no insurance, and refunds were now stuck in a queue Ms Cadman couldn't jump. Then she hesitated and said one more thing, carefully — three families in the year group had been quietly helped with their instalments, and she would not name them or discuss them, not to him, not to anyone. Bilal thought about the empty third chair.
He killed the story. The front page ran a photograph from the swimming carnival instead, and inside he printed four calm paragraphs on what he could actually confirm: the company's collapse, the insurance problem, the refund timeline and where families could ask questions. It was, by a long way, the dullest issue he had ever produced. Hugo said he'd gone soft. Two boys in his English class said the paper was scared of the executive now. Bilal read his spiked draft one more time that night and saw the sentence about "families who couldn't be bothered paying on time" — a sentence that would have turned three real people into a spectacle in front of two hundred classmates.
It cost him the best headline of his life, and he never fully got his reputation as the fearless one back. But he had traded it for something he could actually stand behind. Bilal realised that being certain was not the same as being informed, and that the angriest version of a story is almost never the whole one. From then on, before he published anything, he sat in all three chairs and asked the Powerman's question: what might this look like from where they're standing? Perspective, he understood, was a kind of superpower — the ability to step out of your own single view and see a situation from every side before deciding what it meant.
Your turn — short-answer questions
- What did Bilal learn by sitting in the "third chair", and how did it change what he published?
- Think of something you have said, posted or shared while you were angry. Who might have belonged in the third chair, and how could sitting in it have changed what you did?
For the classroom
Teacher notes — activities, reflections and assessment for this story.
Discussion: Bilal's facts were all correct, yet his article was still unfair. How can a story be accurate and misleading at the same time?
Activity — Three Chairs: Set out three chairs and work through a real school scenario, with volunteers speaking from their own view, the other person's view, and the view of someone affected but not mentioned.
Activity — Ask Before You Publish: In pairs, rewrite an angry social media post or complaint as a calm question you could actually ask the person involved, then discuss what each version would achieve.
Reflection: What did Bilal give up by not running his story, and was it worth it? Write about a time doing the right thing cost you something.
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