The school bell rang at 2:40 PM.
Vihaan was the first to step out — not because he was in a hurry, but because he didn't want to walk beside anyone.
Outside the gate, the usual chaos buzzed: autos honking, students yelling, boys shoving each other just for fun.
He kept his eyes on the road, trying to pass through unnoticed.
But silence never lasts too long in his life.
"Hey, you—chappal boy!"
Vihaan paused for a second.
Wrong move.
Three boys — same class, same faces that laughed behind his back every day — now stood in front of him.
One of them smirked.
"You think you're better than us 'cause you get 98s and write poems no one reads?"
Vihaan didn't reply.
Another one stepped closer.
"You act all innocent, but you think you're some genius, don't you?"
A hand pushed his shoulder, hard.
Vihaan stumbled.
"Say something, topper."
This time, he looked up — eyes empty.
"I don't think anything. You think too much."
The smirk vanished.
A punch came flying, grazed his chin. Not clean, but sharp enough to shake him.
Vihaan didn't hit back.
Not because he couldn't.
But because he knew what pain tastes like. And this wasn't it.
Before it got worse, a peon's whistle rang nearby. The boys scattered.
Vihaan stood there a moment longer, then dusted his shirt and kept walking.
---
At home, the door was half-open. He stepped in quietly.
His mother was sitting on the floor, peeling onions. His father sat silently on the cot, flipping through a torn newspaper.
As soon as his foot hit the floor, his mother snapped,
"What happened now? Shirt dirty again? Why do you always come back like this?"
Vihaan stayed quiet.
"Every day something or the other. Can't you behave like normal boys?"
That word hit him — normal.
He dropped his bag near the wall.
"I didn't ask to be like this."
"What did you say?" her tone sharpened.
"I said I didn't ask to be born like this. Poor. Silent. Not 'normal'. Whatever that means."
"Don't you raise your voice at me!"
"I'm not raising it!" Vihaan shouted back — voice trembling now. "I'm just… tired, Maa."
And just like that, his voice cracked.
He sat down near the wall and buried his face into his arms.
"I'm tired of everything…"
His mother didn't say a word after that.
The room felt colder, even in the afternoon heat.
---
By evening, he changed his shirt and left for coaching. His hair still messy, face still quiet, but eyes a bit red.
At coaching, things were… different.
He stepped into the room and a few boys actually looked at him.
"Yo, Vihaan!"
"You solved that Trigonometry question?"
He nodded faintly.
"Bro, seriously, you should start charging for answers," someone joked.
He gave a weak smile. A small one. But it felt real.
It was the only place he wasn't invisible.
---
After class, they hung outside near the paan stall.
Someone pulled out a cigarette.
Another lit it.
"Want one?" a boy asked, holding one toward Vihaan. "Chill your brain, topper. Too many formulas mess with the head."
Vihaan looked at it.
One second.
Two.
Then… he took it.
Lit it.
Pulled in smoke like it was air.
It tasted sharp, dirty, wrong.
But something about it felt better than silence.
"See? Told you," they laughed.
He didn't laugh.
Just stared into the smoke, eyes half-dead.
By 10:20 PM, he was home again. No one asked him anything.
He dropped his bag, went upstairs to the terrace.
Alone, under the night sky.
The city buzzed below, distant and uncaring.
The stars above — dim, scattered, like old memories.
He sat on the edge, legs crossed.
His mind — quiet. His heart — heavy.
He spoke, voice low.
"Five years ago… I used to love this rooftop."
His eyes scanned the darkness.
"I'd come up here with Papa. We'd watch the stars. He'd tell me stories. Maa would call us in for dinner. And everything felt… whole."
He paused.
"But now… I feel better up here alone. Isn't that strange?"
He looked at the sky.
"I got used to being alone.
Because no one really asked me if I liked being surrounded."
A cool breeze passed. He closed his eyes.
Then… something shifted.
A strange chill ran through his spine.
Not from the wind. From… somewhere else.
He turned around.
Nothing.
But he felt it.
Something watching. Or remembering. Or both.
He stood up slowly, heart beating differently now.
And in that moment — just for a split second —
he felt like he wasn't the only one on that rooftop.