Chapter 7: A Room Without Color

Aarav's room hadn't changed in years.

The walls were the same pale off-white, once bright, now dulled with time. A faded poster of the solar system still hung near the window—slightly curled at the edges, with tiny tears held together by yellowing tape. It had been his favorite once, back in class five, when he thought he'd become an astronomer and spend his life among stars.

Now, he barely noticed it.

The shelves were neatly stacked, mostly with school books arranged by subject, the edges aligned with mechanical precision. A few old novels collected dust on the bottom row—books he had once tried reading before guilt, or scolding, pulled him back into the textbook pages.

A corner of the room had his desk—plain, brown, with a dent on one side from the time his younger brother had slammed into it while chasing a ball. The mark stayed, untouched, as if it too had become a part of the room's truth—unpolished, unhidden, unimportant.

The curtains were beige, neither open nor closed completely, as if unsure whether to let light in or keep it out.

Aarav sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor—not reading, not thinking, not doing anything at all. Just sitting. The halwa from the night before still lingered faintly in his senses, not the taste, but the hollowness that followed.

It had been two days since his birthday. No one had brought it up since. No one remembered. Or maybe they remembered but didn't consider it worth mentioning anymore.

The silence in the house was routine now.

But inside Aarav, it was beginning to suffocate.

He looked around his room and realized something odd. He hadn't decorated anything in years. Not because he didn't like anything—but because somewhere along the way, he had stopped choosing.

Choosing felt dangerous and risky.

So he stopped.

He stopped putting himself into the space around him.

And now, as he looked at his room, he saw what that meant.

It wasn't just a room.

It was a reflection.

Of what he had become.

A life without color.

A world stripped of choice.

He stood up slowly, walked over to the wardrobe, and opened it. Clothes hung like tired memories—uniforms, plain shirts, hand-me-downs, a few new ones his mother had bought on discount. And at the very back, tucked between a winter jacket and an old raincoat, was the navy-blue hoodie with the feather on the chest.

He had kept it.

Even after the scolding.

Even after being called "girlish" for wearing it.

He had never worn it again. But he hadn't thrown it away either.

He pulled it out gently now, ran his fingers over the soft fabric. The feather design was simple, still beautiful. It reminded him of lightness. Of dreams. Of softness in a world that only seemed to value steel.

He sat down on the floor with it in his hands, hugging it to his chest like a memory he didn't want to let go of. A lump rose in his throat, unexpected and heavy.

Why did it hurt so much to want things?

He thought about his room—about the things he had almost wanted to put up but never dared to. The sketch he never pinned to the wall. The small bonsai plant he saw at the market but didn't ask for. The cheap fairy lights that he liked once but walked past quickly because he knew they would be "unnecessary" in his father's eyes.

Each small choice was buried beneath fear.

Fear of rejection.

Fear of insult.

Fear of being told, once again, that who he was—or what he liked—was wrong.

Aarav leaned back against the side of his bed and closed his eyes.

His mind wandered to a conversation he'd overheard once. A friend from school, Rohan, had been arguing with his parents over wanting to join guitar classes. His father had said no, but Rohan had fought, begged, explained. And in the end, his parents had relented—not because they agreed, but because they heard him.

Aarav had never argued like that.

He didn't even know how.

Because somewhere along the way, he had learned that arguing wasn't conversation. That disagreement was not a path to understanding—but a trigger for judgment.

So he shrunk himself instead.

Made himself easy.

Obedient.

Forgettable.

But inside him was a growing ache. A craving—not for material things, but for permission. Permission to exist. To want. To express. To decorate his room with his soul and not just necessities.

He looked at the blank wall in front of him.

He imagined what it might look like with color.

A sketch. A quote. Maybe even a photo of the sky he once wanted to study.

But the moment passed.

His father would notice. Would say it was a distraction. Would frown and ask, "Why waste time on this nonsense?"

And Aarav would have no answer.

Because silence had become safer than self.

The door creaked open slightly. His mother peeked in.

"Tu theek hai, beta?" she asked.

He nodded quickly. "Yes, Maa."

She looked around the room, as if noticing how lifeless it had become, but said nothing. She stepped inside, placed a clean folded towel on the table, and turned to leave.

Then paused.

"You should get some color for these walls," she said softly, almost casually. "It's too dull."

Aarav looked up, startled.

"I… I guess," he replied.

She gave him a half-smile and walked out.

It wasn't a suggestion.

It wasn't permission.

But it was something.

And that tiny moment sat in his chest for the rest of the evening like a flickering candle.

He didn't reach for a paintbrush.

He didn't run to the market.

But he did one small thing.

He reached for the sketchbook, opened to the page with the drawing of the candle and halwa bowl from his birthday, and with slow, uncertain hands, he tore it out.

He walked to the wall near his bed and taped it up with the last bit of cello tape he had.

It was crooked. Alone. Quiet.

But it was his.

A room without color had received its first fragment of identity.

And Aarav, without knowing how or why, had taken his first step toward reclaiming space—not just on a wall, but in the world.

He sat on the bed, staring at the taped page.

And for the first time in months, he didn't feel invisible.

He didn't feel seen either.

But he felt... real.

And that was a start.