Chapter 6: Days Without Change

Morning came again.

Just like yesterday.

And the day before.

And the day before that too.

The same sun rising somewhere behind the tall buildings.

The same cold air slipping in through the tiny hostel window.

The same ceiling staring back at him when he opened his tired eyes.

He sat up slowly. No rush. No excitement.

Looked around his room — small, plain, silent.

Everything was in its place.

His books stacked neatly. His bag resting by the chair. His ironed uniform hanging on the wall.

Nothing had changed.

He stood up. Washed his face. Brushed his teeth. Combed his hair.

Looked at himself in the mirror and saw the same boy.

The boy who had come here with dreams wrapped in clean notebooks.

The boy who had once smiled softly and said, "Let's do this."

Now… that boy just stood quietly.

Not sad. Not angry.

Just… tired.

---

Breakfast was the same.

Bread. Egg. Tea.

The warden called them down like he did every day, in the same tired voice.

He ate quietly. The others did too.

Some scrolled their phones without looking up.

Some finished fast and left without a word.

Some sat with their own little groups, speaking in soft voices he couldn't hear.

No one noticed him.

No one asked, "How are you?"

No one cared if he ate or didn't.

He finished his food slowly.

Not because he was full.

But because there was no reason to hurry.

---

The road to school felt shorter now.

Maybe because he had walked it so many times.

The same streets. The same faces. The same city noise that never rested.

The same shopkeeper arranging newspapers.

The same tea seller pouring steaming cups into dirty glasses.

The same guards at the school gate looking past him as if he wasn't there.

He walked among them quietly.

Invisible.

Like a shadow passing through people's busy mornings.

---

Classroom.

Same seat by the window.

Same notebook on the desk.

Same pen held loosely between tired fingers.

The teachers came.

Spoke the same words.

Wrote the same lessons on the same clean board.

He wrote too. At first.

Neatly. Carefully. Like he used to.

But as the days passed… his handwriting grew smaller.

His pages grew emptier.

His eyes spent more time looking outside than looking at the board.

---

At first, he had thought this would change.

That with time, people would talk to him.

That maybe someone would sit beside him and ask,

"What's your name?"

Or,

"Where are you from?"

But no one did.

Everyone already had their friends.

Their groups. Their circles where he didn't fit.

He had been welcomed once, on that first day with smiles and words and claps.

But now… he didn't exist.

Not really.

He thought about that a lot.

How easily people forget.

How quickly smiles fade.

---

His notebook became something else now.

No longer filled with words or lessons.

Now… sketches began to appear.

At first, just small ones. Doodles in the corner of a page.

A tree. A bird. A building.

Little things he saw outside the window while pretending to listen.

Then bigger sketches.

Clouds stretching across the sky.

Roads twisting away from sight.

People moving fast, faces down, hands busy.

His hand moved softly across the page.

Drawing what his heart couldn't say.

---

One month passed like this.

Quietly. Slowly. Like a river crawling through rocks.

He stopped writing notes altogether.

Stopped trying to understand the lessons.

Stopped pretending he belonged here.

Now… he sat with his notebook open not to learn… but to sketch.

Sketch what he saw. Sketch what he missed. Sketch what he felt.

The teachers didn't notice.

Or maybe they did, but they didn't care.

Why would they?

He wasn't loud. He wasn't causing trouble.

He was just… there.

A quiet boy by the window with a quiet notebook full of quiet drawings.

---

Sometimes, during class, his mind wandered far.

Back to his old school.

To the days filled with laughter.

To the friends who pulled his chair, who shared their lunch, who laughed too loud at jokes that weren't even funny.

He remembered the teachers who called him by name.

Who smiled when he answered right.

Who patted his back when he did well.

He remembered the playgrounds. The games. The noise. The freedom.

Here… there was none of that.

Here, fun wasn't allowed.

Here, smiles were rare.

Here, everyone moved like machines.

Study. Write. Eat. Sleep.

Repeat.

No one played. No one laughed freely.

No one looked outside the window except him.

---

He missed home.

But he didn't say it.

Didn't call often anymore.

What would he say?

"I'm tired."

"I'm lonely."

"I feel invisible."

No.

He couldn't say that.

His mother would worry.

His father would grow quiet.

So he said nothing.

Just, "I'm fine. Everything is good here."

And hung up with a small smile they couldn't see through the phone.

---

The days moved like this.

One after another.

Like pages turning without anyone reading them.

He woke up.

Washed.

Dressed.

Ate.

Walked.

Sat.

Watched.

Sketched.

Returned.

No change.

No color.

No surprise.

Just time passing through his hands like water he couldn't hold.

---

At night, he stared at the ceiling.

Listened to the quiet hum of fans.

The footsteps in the hallway.

The city outside, breathing in lights and noise.

He thought,

"How long can I keep doing this?"

"How long before I disappear completely inside this silence?"

But the answers didn't come.

Only sleep did.

Soft. Slow. Heavy.

---

And so another day ended.

And another waited quietly behind the door of tomorrow.