Chapter 9: Thinking About the Past

Another morning.

Same room.

Same walls.

Same air.

He woke up not because he wanted to…

Just because his body was used to it now.

The clock ticked slow.

The sun rose slow.

His breathing stayed slow.

He sat up, feet touching the cold floor.

Looked at the small window.

Looked at the sky hidden behind buildings.

Grey clouds again.

Even the sky seemed tired of pretending to shine.

He washed his face. Brushed his teeth.

Didn't look in the mirror long.

He already knew the face staring back.

Quiet. Tired.

Carrying days like heavy books no one wanted to read.

Breakfast.

Same bread. Same egg. Same tea.

Same table. Same faces. Same silence.

He sat quietly. Ate slowly.

Watched others talk in circles he couldn't step into.

They laughed like they belonged here.

He chewed like he was only passing through.

No one noticed him.

No one asked about him.

And he…

He stopped expecting them to.

The walk to school felt heavier.

Feet moving because they had to, not because they wanted to.

The streets didn't change.

The faces didn't change.

The guards at the gate didn't change.

He walked through it all like a ghost.

Existing, but not alive in the way others seemed to be.

Classroom.

Same seat.

Same window.

Same notebook.

He opened it.

Not to write lessons.

To sketch again.

Today, his pen moved slower.

Lines softer.

Shapes blurrier.

He wasn't drawing clouds or buildings today.

He was drawing memories.

A field with boys running barefoot.

A tree where kites hung trapped in branches.

A small school gate painted blue, peeling at the edges.

His old school.

His old life.

He remembered it all in pieces.

Friends shouting his name from across the ground.

Teachers calling him to the front for answers.

Lunch breaks filled with noise and crumbs and shared laughter.

Here… there was no shouting.

No calling.

No sharing.

Only quiet. Only separation. Only days folding into each other like grey papers.

He remembered sitting with his friends, passing notebooks, drawing silly things in the corners of pages.

He remembered chasing after footballs, after kites, after butterflies in the air.

He remembered laughter that came easy.

Words that didn't feel heavy.

Smiles that weren't forced.

He missed that version of life.

He missed that version of himself.

Teachers came and went.

Lessons written on the board.

Words floating through the room like smoke he couldn't catch.

He didn't try to catch them anymore.

Not today.

Not for a while now.

His notes stayed blank.

His sketches grew fuller.

A playground. A friend's face. A school bell. A tree bending towards the sky.

He wondered where his old friends were now.

If they thought of him too.

If they remembered his laugh.

If they noticed he didn't laugh anymore.

Lunchtime.

Same table. Same silence.

He ate.

Not because he was hungry.

Because eating was something to fill the time.

He watched others again.

Laughing. Talking. Sharing phones, food, secrets.

He thought,

"They don't need me."

And quietly added inside,

"I don't need them either… do I?"

But deep down, he knew.

He did need them.

Not these people exactly.

But people.

Warmth.

Connection.

Someone to notice when he didn't show up.

Someone to say,

"Are you okay?"

After lunch, he walked the halls slower.

Looked at the posters on the walls.

Clubs he'd never join. Events he'd never attend.

Photos of students smiling for cameras.

Faces that didn't know him.

Faces that wouldn't miss him.

He thought again about home.

About his village where people knew your name, your father's name, your grandfather's name.

Where shopkeepers asked about your school, your health, your dreams.

Here, no one asked anything.

No one cared if you came or went.

Class ended.

School ended.

He walked back to the hostel.

Same road. Same shops. Same steps.

But today, his heart felt heavier.

Dragging memories behind it like old luggage with broken wheels.

Back in his room, he opened his notebook again.

Sketched his village this time.

The narrow roads.

The green fields.

The river curling like a lazy snake across the land.

His house.

Small. Simple.

But home.

His mother standing in the doorway.

His father sitting by the window.

He drew them from memory.

Faces soft. Hands busy.

Eyes looking somewhere far, maybe wondering about him.

He missed them.

Missed the sounds of home.

The way plates clinked at dinner.

The way neighbors called from gates.

The way the wind carried stories instead of dust.

Evening came slow.

He ironed his uniform.

Folded it neatly, more out of habit than hope.

Opened his notes.

Stared at the blank pages between sketches.

Wrote small words in the corner.

"I miss home."

"I miss being seen."

"I miss feeling alive."

Closed the book softly.

He didn't call home tonight.

Didn't want them to hear the tired in his voice.

Didn't want to fake another smile through the phone.

Instead, he stood by the window.

Looked at the city swallowing the sky again.

Lights blinking like tired eyes.

Roads stretching like open mouths swallowing feet.

He whispered,

"Will this city ever feel like home?"

The city didn't answer.

He lay on his bed.

Looked at the ceiling.

Listened to the hum of life moving without him.

Thought,

"Tomorrow… I'll do it all again."

Because what else could he do?

And so another day ended.

And another waited behind tomorrow's door.