Chapter 8: Sketches Over Words
Morning again.
Same sky. Same room. Same ceiling.
He woke up because the sun touched his face through the thin curtain.
Not because he wanted to.
Not because he was excited.
Just because mornings don't wait for anyone.
He sat up slowly.
Rubbed his face. Looked at the clock. Same time as yesterday.
Same time as the day before.
It felt like the clock's hands didn't move forward anymore.
They just circled around the same pain.
He stood up. Walked to the small mirror.
Washed his face. Brushed his teeth.
Looked at himself. Again.
The boy staring back was no longer new to this city.
No longer fresh. No longer bright-eyed.
Just tired.
Just waiting for days to end so nights could come.
Waiting for nights to end so mornings could start again.
He wore his uniform.
Not neatly. Not carelessly.
Just enough to pass. Just enough to not stand out.
His shoes were clean but losing shine.
His bag carried fewer books now. More sketches than pages of words.
He didn't speak to himself this morning.
Even the habit of whispering encouragement had grown silent.
Breakfast came and went.
Same bread. Same egg. Same tea.
Same faces. Same phones. Same silence.
No one noticed him.
No one asked how he was doing.
No one cared where he sat.
He didn't mind anymore.
At least… that's what he told himself.
The walk to school was slower today.
Not because his body was tired.
Because his heart was.
The streets hadn't changed.
The faces hadn't changed.
But inside him, something felt heavier than it used to.
He passed the tea shop again.
The old man waved at familiar students. Not at him.
He wasn't familiar enough for anyone here.
He passed the newspaper shop.
The headlines spoke of things big and loud.
He felt too small for any headline.
The guard at the school gate looked past him again.
Same as always.
As if he wasn't really there.
He sat at his usual desk.
Near the window.
Close to the sky he couldn't touch.
Opened his notebook.
Not the one for lessons.
The one for sketches.
At first, he had hidden it under textbooks.
Sketching between lines of notes, afraid someone might notice.
Now… he didn't hide it anymore.
He didn't care if anyone saw.
They didn't see him anyway.
He opened a blank page.
Let his pen wander.
Clouds.
Buildings.
Trees leaning tired against empty streets.
A bird flying but with nowhere to land.
His drawings said what his mouth didn't.
His sketches showed what his heart carried.
Teachers came and went.
Words floated through the room like smoke.
None of them landed inside him.
He didn't write notes.
Didn't raise his hand.
Didn't answer questions.
No one called on him.
No one noticed.
It was easier to disappear when people already expected nothing.
He drew more.
Hands reaching but touching nothing.
Eyes looking but seeing nothing.
Doors standing open but leading nowhere.
Pages filled up slowly.
Not with knowledge.
With loneliness drawn in black and white.
Lunchtime.
Same table. Same corner. Same silence.
Others laughed. Shared food. Pulled each other into conversations.
He ate alone.
Finished quickly.
Returned to class early, just to sit by the window.
Watched the world move without him.
Cars rushing.
People walking fast.
Birds flying away.
Clouds passing by.
He sketched it all.
One page. Another. And another.
Sketching felt safer than talking.
Pencils didn't judge.
Paper didn't laugh.
Drawings didn't leave you.
Sometimes his mind slipped back home.
To the old classroom where laughter filled the air.
To teachers who knew his name.
To friends who pulled him into games, into jokes, into life.
Here… there were no games.
No pulling.
Only pushing — forward, forward, forward.
He missed home in small, sharp ways.
The smell of rain on soil.
The sound of his mother's cooking.
The weight of his father's hand on his shoulder.
He missed the simple things.
The things he thought would always be there.
Now they lived only in his sketches.
Classes ended.
Days passed.
Nights returned.
He returned to the hostel like always.
Dropped his bag.
Opened his sketchbook.
Drew his room.
The bed.
The window.
The sky.
The ceiling he stared at every night.
Drew himself — small, quiet, sitting in a corner, watching a world that never turned to look back.
Evenings stretched long.
He didn't call home much anymore.
Didn't want to lie.
Didn't want to worry them.
When he did call, his words stayed small.
"I'm fine."
"Classes are good."
"I'm studying."
He left out the truth.
Left out the emptiness.
Left out the loneliness chewing at his chest.
His mother's voice was soft through the phone.
His father's words steady but few.
They still believed in him.
Still waited for good news.
He smiled through the call.
Hung up.
Sat in silence again.
Nights grew heavier.
The ceiling didn't speak.
The fan hummed without care.
The city lights blinked like tired stars.
He wrote small words beside his drawings now.
"Still here."
"Still trying."
"Still alone."
Sometimes, he wondered how long it would be before he gave up completely.
Before he packed his bag and walked away from this city.
Before he let the silence win.
But he didn't leave.
Not yet.
Something small inside him kept holding on.
A thread too thin to see but strong enough to keep him standing.
He ironed his uniform again.
Prepared his bag again.
Looked at his sketches again.
Told himself,
"One more day. Just one more. That's all."
Closed his eyes.
Waited for morning.
Waited for something to change.
But mornings don't change just because hearts break.
And so another day ended.
And another waited quietly behind tomorrow's door.