Chapter 11: Wanting to Escape

Morning again.

The sun came up.

The sky brightened.

The world moved forward.

But he…

He stayed the same.

Lying on his bed longer than usual.

Staring at the ceiling longer than usual.

Breathing slower than usual.

He didn't want to get up.

Didn't want to face another day.

Didn't want to hear the same sounds, walk the same roads, sit in the same chair.

But he got up anyway.

Because that's what people do.

Even when they're tired.

Even when they're empty.

Even when they want to disappear.

He stood in front of the mirror.

Looked at the boy standing there.

Same face. Same tired eyes.

Same uniform hanging off his body like a memory.

He didn't fix his hair properly.

Didn't straighten his collar.

Didn't care.

He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder without checking what was inside.

Notebook. Sketchbook. Pen. Nothing more.

Breakfast was the same.

Bread. Egg. Tea.

People laughing.

People scrolling.

People living.

He ate slowly.

Watched people talk without looking his way.

Watched them make plans, share jokes, pass phones.

He thought,

"It must be nice to belong somewhere."

But he didn't belong here.

Not in this hostel.

Not in this city.

Not in this crowd.

He finished eating without tasting.

Left quietly, like every morning now.

The road to school stretched ahead like always.

Grey streets. Cold faces. Busy feet.

He walked without looking up.

Watched the cracks in the pavement instead.

Watched ants moving in lines.

Watched his own shoes step forward, forward, forward.

Not fast. Not slow.

Just moving.

Because stopping wasn't an option.

Not yet.

School.

Same gate. Same guards.

Same faces rushing past him.

Classroom.

Same seat. Same window.

Same notebook. Same sketchbook.

He opened the sketchbook first today.

Didn't even pretend to care about the other one.

His pen moved slowly.

Drawing lines without thinking.

Shapes without planning.

Today he drew roads.

Long. Empty. Endless.

Roads curling away into forests.

Roads sinking into rivers.

Roads that didn't lead to cities.

He thought of home again.

The narrow paths between fields.

The dust rising with footsteps.

The silence filled with birdsong, not engines.

He missed it all so deeply it hurt.

But he didn't cry.

Not anymore.

His tears had learned to hide better than he did.

Teachers spoke.

Lessons passed.

Boards filled with words he couldn't hold.

He sketched through it all.

Drawing trees now.

Mountains.

Houses small and warm.

Windows with curtains, not glass walls.

He missed the feeling of belonging somewhere.

Anywhere.

Lunch came.

Same food. Same silence.

He ate less.

Half a plate. A few bites. No hunger.

He watched others again.

How easy they made it look.

Smiling. Talking. Living.

Like the world wasn't heavy on their chests.

He envied them.

Not for their clothes. Not for their phones.

For their ease. For their belonging.

Afternoon.

Classes moved like slow rivers.

Words floating, not landing.

He didn't listen.

Didn't care.

Just drew.

Birds now.

Flying. Always flying.

Never landing.

Never resting.

He wrote beneath one sketch:

"I wish I had wings."

But wings wouldn't help if you didn't know where to fly.

Back in his room.

Dropped his bag.

Sat at his desk.

Opened the sketchbook again.

He drew home.

Again. And again.

The river.

The trees.

The hills.

His small house.

His mother's shadow at the door.

His father's figure by the gate.

He missed them in every breath.

But he didn't call.

Didn't want them to hear this version of him.

Didn't want them to hear the boy who thought of running away.

Evening stretched like tired arms.

The city lights blinked on.

The streets buzzed with tired energy.

He stood by the window.

Looked at the buildings blocking the sky.

Thought,

"I'm not strong. I'm just surviving."

He whispered,

"What if I left? What if I went home? Would they understand? Would they forgive me for giving up?"

But another voice answered inside,

"You didn't come here to run away."

"You came here for them."

"You came here for you."

And so he stayed.

Another night.

Another quiet battle won by just breathing.

He ironed his uniform again.

Out of habit, not hope.

Folded his books again.

Opened his sketches again.

He wrote beside a drawing of home:

"I'll see you again. One day."

Closed the book.

Laid on his bed.

Looked at the ceiling.

Listened to his heartbeat.

Slow. Steady. Tired.

Thought,

"Tomorrow. I'll wake up again. I'll keep going. Because I don't know what else to do."

And so another day ended.

And another waited behind tomorrow's door.