Chapter 9: The First Silence

It wasn't one particular day that Aarav chose silence.

It was many days—stacked like bricks, built out of conversations that ended in mockery, questions answered with judgment, and attempts at honesty that were returned like broken gifts.

Silence didn't arrive like a decision.

It arrived like a necessity.

One morning, while brushing his teeth, Aarav looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were tired—far more tired than a fifteen-year-old's should be. There was a soft puffiness beneath them, the kind that came not from lack of sleep, but from constantly holding back emotions that had nowhere to go.

He hadn't cried in weeks.

Not because he didn't feel like crying.

But because even his tears had grown tired of showing up when no one listened.

That day in school, his teacher asked a simple question in class. Something about a chapter they had recently finished. Aarav knew the answer. He'd revised it last night while everyone else was watching TV.

But he didn't raise his hand.

Because the last time he'd answered—three days ago—he had stumbled while speaking and the boy behind him had snorted, "Bas padhai hi toh aata hai. Bolna toh kabhi seekha hi nahi."

A single sentence.

But one that stayed with him longer than any lesson.

He didn't answer this time. And the teacher moved on.

And no one noticed.

It started happening more often. Moments where he could have spoken—at home, at school, even with Veer—but didn't.

Not because he had nothing to say.

But because he didn't want to offer himself up only to be misunderstood again.

That evening, his mother asked at the dinner table, "How was school?"

He smiled politely and replied, "Fine."

That word became his armor. His shield. His prison.

Fine.

Not great. Not terrible. Just… fine.

Because explaining anything more took effort.

And effort required trust.

And trust required safety.

And Aarav hadn't felt safe in a very long time.

He still remembered the last time he had tried explaining himself to his father.

It was after the results came, after the scolding in front of his teacher, after the long night where he had silently stared at the wall, feeling like he was slowly eroding.

The next morning, he had gathered courage. Not because he wanted to argue—but because he thought maybe, just maybe, if he explained, his father would understand. He had gone to him, while he was having tea, and said in a careful voice:

"Papa… I know I didn't do great this time. But I really did try. I studied late at night. I even gave up drawing and… I just wanted you to know that."

Raghav had stared at him for a moment, as if studying whether this was an excuse or a confession.

And then, with the flatness of a worn-out judge, he replied:

"If you'd tried, you would've scored. Don't waste my time with drama. Go study."

That sentence hadn't made Aarav cry.

It had done worse.

It had made him feel invisible.

That was the last time he explained anything to anyone.

After that, the walls began to rise.

Invisible ones—between him and his parents, between him and his classmates, between him and even himself.

He stopped telling his mother when he felt unwell. What was the point? She'd just worry and ask his father, who would say something like, "Maybe if he spent less time sitting in corners, he'd be healthy."

He stopped telling Veer when a teacher appreciated his handwriting. Veer would just roll his eyes and say, "Handwriting doesn't win matches."

He stopped telling his friends when he felt nervous or unsure or lonely. They were too busy navigating their own worlds, their own pressures. And even if they noticed his silence, they assumed it was just who he was.

Aarav, the quiet one.

Aarav, the studious boy.

Aarav, the invisible thread in the room.

No one realized that this silence was new.

And it was growing.

In class, he sat at the back more often now. Not because he wanted to hide, but because being in the middle meant being noticed. And he was learning that attention rarely brought kindness.

At home, he started finishing his meals earlier, retreating to his room without waiting for post-dinner conversations.

Not that there were many anymore.

His father barely spoke to him unless it was about school. Veer rarely looked up from his phone. His mother tried—through food, through reminders to take an extra tiffin—but even she seemed to understand that Aarav had built a fortress around himself.

And she didn't know how to knock without making it collapse.

That night, as he lay in bed, Aarav thought about all the things he wanted to say.

He wanted to tell his father that he wasn't lazy.

He wanted to tell Veer that sometimes jokes cut deeper than expected.

He wanted to tell his mother that he missed her humming in the kitchen, missed the way she used to braid his hair when he was small and laugh at his lopsided drawings.

He wanted to say—

I'm not okay.

But none of it came out.

Instead, he stared at the glow of the streetlight spilling through his window, and imagined himself as a balloon—full of words, slowly floating higher and higher… until it popped from the pressure.

But there would be no sound when he burst.

Because by then, no one would be close enough to hear it.

One week later, during a parent-teacher meeting, Aarav's class teacher pulled Raghav aside.

"He's quiet," she said.

Raghav nodded. "He's always been like that."

She shook her head gently. "No, this is different. He used to answer in class. Now, even when I call his name, he just shrugs."

Raghav frowned. "Well, maybe he's finally focusing on his studies."

She sighed. "Sometimes silence isn't focus. It's fatigue."

Raghav didn't respond.

When he came home that day, he said nothing to Aarav.

Just walked past his room and muttered, "Don't forget your tuition tomorrow."

Aarav, sitting with his head down over a math notebook, whispered, "Yes."

And that was it.

The silence between them had stopped being a crack.

It had become a language.

In the weeks that followed, Aarav perfected the art of bottling.

He smiled when expected.

He nodded when spoken to.

He walked with his eyes lowered, not out of fear, but because he was tired of looking into eyes that didn't see him.

He became a boy of few words and fewer emotions.

His classmates didn't ask anymore.

His relatives moved on to newer gossip.

Even his mother stopped asking how his day was—perhaps afraid of the silence she might receive.

But inside, Aarav was screaming.

Every single day.

A silent scream.

The kind that echoes not through halls or homes—but through hearts.