After a long, tiresome day filled with tours, introductions, and endless walking around the school, Vansh finally allowed his shoulders to relax. He had kept his promise — a simple promise made silently to her — and that thought alone warmed the exhaustion in his bones. Sitting on the worn-out bus seat, the cool breeze slipping through the cracked window, Vansh let his eyes wander, the hum of the engine lulling his mind into a gentle haze.
Behind him, Aanya watched herself smiling in the bus window's reflection, something she hadn't seen in a long time. Without thinking, she skipped forward to take the empty seat beside Vansh, but the conductor stopped her midway, wagging a stern finger. She puffed her cheeks in frustration, looking adorably arrogant, but didn't argue. Instead, she slid into the seat just behind him, her forehead pressing lightly against the glass, trying to catch glimpses of Vansh's face through the blurred reflection.
Beside her, Srujan threw playful jabs, trying to pull her into conversation, while Dhanush sat a seat behind them both, quietly observing, his eyes missing nothing.
The bus rumbled on, creaking with every bump on the uneven roads. As Vansh's stop neared, he stood up, adjusting his bag. He could feel Aanya's gaze, heavy and obvious, stitched into his back like invisible thread — yet he ignored it, stepping off without a glance. His footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way to his home, unlocking the door just as the bus's tires screeched and dragged the vehicle forward into the distance, carrying with it silent eyes that refused to look away.
Vansh opened his door, pushing it.
The door to the classroom had opened once before — months ago — not just to another day but to something different.
Students sat in isolated bubbles, some buried in books, others staring at nothing, none of them reaching for each other. Conversations, if any, were soft and sparse, like fragile wisps of smoke ready to vanish. It wasn't lively. It wasn't cold. It was simply... hollow.
When the teacher entered, she caught the weight of that hollowness at once. She clapped her hands — more out of habit than necessity — and announced with careful cheer,
"A new student is joining us today. Welcome him warmly."
The words barely stirred the air.
Then, he entered — a boy small in stature but explosive in energy, as if he was barely holding back from bouncing across the walls. Vansh, wide-eyed and practically vibrating, waved awkwardly.
"Hello everyone! My name is Vansh and I'm new here. Let's all have fun together. I hope we will!"
His voice cracked slightly at the end, but it didn't matter. It was real. It was bright.
The students barely reacted, continuing their silent, detached existence. But Vansh didn't let the cold sink into him.
He wandered casually toward a boy engrossed in a storybook, pretending to know the story and talking animatedly. He drifted next to a group of girls meticulously crafting dolls and pins, admiring their work with genuine awe.
Slowly — miraculously — the classroom began to shift. Books were set aside. Whispered laughter crept back in. Eyes that had once been dull started to shine. For the first time in months, the classroom was alive.
The teacher stood frozen at her desk, watching the boy effortlessly lift an entire room just by being himself. A pang of sadness twisted in her chest — she, the teacher, hadn't been able to do what this one boy had done in mere minutes.
Time, cruel and unrelenting, moved on.
When Vansh entered the classroom again months later, his skin had darkened — a deep tan from too much sun, perhaps, or long days spent outside. But inside, he was unchanged: the same spark, the same energy.
Yet the world around him refused to see that.
The whispers returned, but this time their edges were sharpened by cruelty.
"Blackie."
"Slave."
"Filthy."
The desks that once welcomed him now bore ugly scribbles, black paints smeared cruelly across their surfaces.
His own desk had become a weapon against him.
In school skits, they pushed him into roles he hadn't signed up for — beggar, fool, background noise — even when the scripts didn't call for it.
And every time he refused the teacher's helping hand, sinking deeper into a silence he couldn't explain.
She could only watch helplessly as the boy who once brought light was now left to rot in the shadows.
Vansh, for all his energy, all his heart, quietly cleaned the messes after school — no complaints, no fights.
Just silence, swallowing him whole.
When his mother arrived to check on him days later, the students smiled sweetly, deceiving her completely. She saw nothing. Vansh said nothing. And the world turned, uncaring. Vansh closed the classroom door, he saw the classroom before he shut it down.
At home, the door creaked open as Vansh slipped inside.
His room was simple: a small bed tucked into the corner, a sturdy study desk cluttered with comics and half-used pencils, a battered wardrobe, a tiny bathroom. His sanctuary, small but enough.
The keychain on his pencil stand caught the fading sunlight, spinning gently.
His mother entered — a strict woman, her face carved from stone.
"Arrived early?" she asked, voice sharp.
Vansh shook his head.
"Then finish your homework before you lie down," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Vansh nodded faintly and dragged himself to the desk.
Elsewhere, the warmth of another home glowed like a hidden sun.
Aanya burst through her door to a chorus of welcomes. Her mother ruffled her hair, asking excitedly about her day. Aanya chattered away about the school tour, her voice bubbling with joy.
Her father entered, tired but smiling as Aanya jumped to hug him from behind.
Their dog barked in excitement, circling their feet, completing the little moment of family warmth.
Suddenly, Aanya's cough broke through the laughter.
Concerned, her father asked for medicine, her mother rushing to grab a wet towel. They wrapped her throat gently, easing her breathing.
Through the worry, Aanya giggled, and they all ended up laughing too — tangled in each other's arms and worries and love.
Later, her mother nudged her upstairs to change clothes. Her room was small, slightly smaller than Vansh's — a cozy bed, a modest study table, a shelf stacked with medicine and asthma pumps. A room touched by illness but not imprisoned by it.
She changed into fresh clothes and skipped downstairs, joining her parents at the dinner table, their laughter mixing with the clink of utensils and the soft barking of their dog.
Meanwhile, in Vansh's house, the coldness never lifted.
His father came home but spoke to no one, disappearing into his room without a word.
His mother ordered Vansh to fetch his brother. Vansh knocked on his brother's door and waited.
Two minutes passed before the door creaked open.
"You could've just said it and left," his brother muttered, annoyed.
Vansh didn't reply.
Both boys went downstairs silently. They sat at the dinner table, eating without a single conversation.
Halfway through, his brother broke the silence, asking casually if they could get a pet.
Their mother snapped,
"We're already fed up with work. No more burdens."
His father agreed without looking up from his phone.
Soon after, both parents were pulled into work calls. Plates were abandoned. Meals left half-eaten. Vansh saw his parents' plates which were untouched after some bites. Father taking his laptop from the couch and rushing into his room, on other hand mother pulling her own documents and sat on the couch, holding a pen.
The children finished quietly and returned to their rooms without another word.
Vansh turned off the main lights in his room, switching on only the soft yellow glow of his reading lamp. He picked up his latest comic, immersing himself in its colourful worlds where heroes never stayed silent. Across the hallway, his brother watched the faint light bleed through the cracks of Vansh's door but said nothing.
Later, after her work was done, their mother reheated her dinner and ate alone, peeking at Vansh's door before slipping quietly into her room.
Somewhere else, in a house filled with warmth, Aanya slept soundly — her small body tucked between her parents, her dog sprawled lazily at their feet.
Dreaming of a day that had felt like a beginning.
While another boy, alone under a dim light, wondered if beginnings were only made to be broken.