Can someone criticize my essay? My english teacher says he loved it and it has nothing i could add, but i disagree

I stared at the tiny analog clock inside an intricately designed pink box as the minutes go by. One minute at first, then two minutes, and eventually ten. Everyone in the car is tired, and even my aunt seems as if she has to force herself to stay awake. Suddenly, everyone went blank. It was not the tires that came to a screeching halt as glass shattered everywhere or the tall figure that flashed before my eyes that I remembered from the incident. It was only the green glow of the numbers 3:24 against the black background and the minutes slowly passing by.

I would’ve never expected it earlier that same morning. As an 8-year-old girl, I’ve only worried about simple things such as toys and having fun. That day. My aunt decided to take me to the store and buy me a gift for my upcoming birthday. When I arrived, many different knick-knacks excited me, but only one captured my eye: a beautiful little pink music box engraved with gold colored swirls and diamond patterns that could play music if I turned the bright colored knob on the side of it. Ever since I could remember the TV shows I watched or the books I read, there were a handful of cliche objects that the character somehow ended up finding. One of these was a music box. Ever since I’ve seen each show that I loved get a music box, I’ve also wanted one. After begging my aunt to buy me it, my aunt obliged. When we got into the car, I couldn’t stop looking at it. I traced my fingers across the indents and swirls. When I opened the box, there was a small clock that I looked at when I was bored. In the car, all was well until everything abruptly stopped.

All I could hear was the shrill, pitchy sound of glass breaking against the floor of the car and a thud. I didn't observe anything around me though, only the numbers inside that music box. When my aunt suddenly realized what she had done, she rushed to take us home and then take the man to the hospital. My young brain could barely process it as she took drove us home. Even though my aunt tried to explain what had happened, the only thing that could calm me down was the rhythmic ticking of the clock inside the music box. When my aunt dropped me home, I don't pay attention to the identical looks of worry on each of my family member’s faces. The tick-tock of every second echoes my head, and my hands firmly grasp the case as I walk up to my room and patiently wait for aunt’s return. To pass time, I could’ve watched TV or played with my brothers, but instead my inspect every inch of the music box, my hands lingering across it by instinct. I couldn't help but count each second as the clock ticked. A thought about the crash and what my aunt was going to do erupted in my head with each second that passed. When my aunt comes home, she dismisses all the burning questions I have.

When I lied in bed that night, I grabbed my music box for comfort. It might’ve been a part of bad memories, but it was the only thing that calmed me down the night of the car crash.