Ayaan was twelve when the world changed.
He remembered the screams more than the silence that followed—the screech of tires, the crash of steel, his mother's voice calling his name. And then… quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind that comes at night when the world is sleeping. This was hollow, consuming, endless. The accident left him with a scar across his throat and a diagnosis that shattered him more than broken bones: permanent loss of speech. The doctors said it clinically. His father nodded, too shocked to ask questions. His mother wept into her scarf. And Ayaan just stared, not because he didn't understand—but because he did. More than anyone else in that room. He would never speak again.
The world, as he knew it, had ended.
It wasn't the inability to speak that hurt most. It was how the world responded to it.
People spoke slower around him, or not at all. His classmates avoided eye contact. Teachers marked his silence as absence. He became invisible—like silence had erased his existence.
But Ayaan was listening. Always.
He listened to the whispers in hallways, the muffled sobs behind closed doors, the conversations people thought no one else could hear.
He discovered that pain had many voices—and none of them needed to be loud.
To cope, he began drawing At first, just images of his memories: his mother's smile, the dog they lost two years ago, the accident. Then people. Faces twisted in grief, others strained in suppressed rage. Eventually, the drawings became something more—mirrors of the soul. He never showed them to anyone.
Until he met Leena.
Leena didn't look like she wanted to be saved. She looked like she'd stopped believing anyone could even try. They met by accident at the old train station where Ayaan liked to sketch. She was sitting on the bench, arms crossed, eyes red. A cigarette hung from her fingers like a threat. Ayaan sat at the other end and began to draw her.
She noticed.
You're that mute kid, right?" she asked.
He nodded.
She raised a brow. "You draw me, and I'll break your pencil."
He stopped.
But she didn't leave.
They sat in silence.
The next day, she was there again.
This time, she asked, "Why don't you hate the world?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't He pulled out his sketchpad and wrote:
"I do. Sometimes. But I try to understand it more than I hate it."
She looked at him like he'd spoken out loud.
They started meeting often. Leena talked. Ayaan listened. They never needed volume—only presence.
She spoke of her mother's addiction, her father's departure, the razor blades hidden beneath her bed. Ayaan never flinched. He only drew.
One day, he handed her a drawing of herself—not broken, but whole. Eyes fierce. Posture strong. A girl made of fire, not ashes.
She stared at it for a long time.
And then she cried.
What Ayaan didn't know was that Leena had started keeping his drawings.
She believed they deserved to be seen—not because they were beautiful, but because they were honest.
One afternoon, when he was in the hospital for a routine check-up, Leena took his private journal—the one he'd never shown anyone—and read it. Inside were letters he'd written to the world, to himself, to the man who'd caused the accident.
She cried as she read them. And then she did something reckless.
She took them to a small publishing house in the city, attached only one name: The Voice of Pain. She didn't tell Ayaan.
Weeks later, the book went viral online.People who'd never known Ayaan began sharing stories of how the words healed them, broke them, changed them. His drawings were reprinted in magazines. Quotes from his journal were turned into tattoos. Teachers read them in classrooms. Therapists used them in group sessions.
And Ayaan?
He woke up one morning to find a copy of the book on his doorstep.
Inside, a note from Leena you changed my life. Now let them change yours."
What Ayaan didn't know was that Leena had started keeping his drawings.
She believed they deserved to be seen—not because they were beautiful, but because they were honest.
One afternoon, when he was in the hospital for a routine check-up, Leena took his private journal—the one he'd never shown anyone—and read it. Inside were letters he'd written to the world, to himself, to the man who'd caused the accident.
She cried as she read them.
And then she did something reckless.
She took them to a small publishing house in the city, attached only one name: The Voice of Pain.
She didn't tell Ayaan.
Weeks later, the book went viral online.
People who'd never known Ayaan began sharing stories of how the words healed them, broke them, changed them. His drawings were reprinted in magazines. Quotes from his journal were turned into tattoos. Teachers read them in classrooms. Therapists used them in group sessions.
And Ayaan?
He woke up one morning to find a copy of the book on his doorstep.
Inside, a note from Leena:
"You changed my life. Now let them change yours."