The mic stood still.
Almost too still.
Aarav stared at it from behind the wings of the auditorium stage. It had become something familiar over the past few weeks — a symbol not of fear anymore, but of presence. And yet now, with all eyes soon to be on him, the weight returned. Not like dread — more like responsibility.
He clenched the folded paper in his hand tighter.
Suhani was in the second row, legs crossed, her sketchpad closed for once.
Kabir gave him a silent nod from beside her.
It was the school farewell — final term for the 12th years. The program had been filled with dances, speeches, skits, songs. Glitter and noise and confetti bombs.
But this speech was the final act.
Mrs. Fernandes had introduced it as "a reflection by one of our quietest students."
The auditorium was still ringing from applause.
And now… silence.
Aarav walked up to the podium.
---
He didn't speak right away.
Just stood there, paper held at his side, looking out at faces he'd ignored for years — classmates, juniors, teachers. People who once saw him as a shadow or a snide remark. Now, they were watching like they expected something.
He took a breath.
And began.
---
> "I don't have advice for you.
I don't know what the future holds.
And I won't pretend I've figured things out.
But I do know what it feels like to sit in the back of the room and think,
'If I don't try, I can't fail.'
I know what it feels like to believe that invisibility is safer than disappointment.
That detachment is smarter than caring."
---
There was no sound in the auditorium.
No shuffling.
No coughs.
Just listening.
---
Aarav looked up from the paper.
"I spent most of my school life trying not to be noticed," he said. "It was easier. To be the boy who rolled his eyes. Who gave smart answers but never raised his hand. Who called everything pointless before it could point back at him."
A pause.
Then: "And honestly? I was good at it."
A few soft chuckles rippled through the front rows.
He smiled faintly.
"But this year," he continued, "something changed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a movie scene. It was… small things. A transfer student who drew when she thought no one was watching. A guy who refused to let me sit out of group projects. Teachers who saw through my silences. A notebook I stopped hiding."
---
Aarav turned the paper over, but didn't read from it again.
He spoke plainly now.
"I think we're obsessed with the idea of being complete. Perfect grades. Perfect careers. Perfect images. But maybe… maybe we're not meant to be finished stories."
He looked directly at the juniors.
"You'll mess up. You'll forget things. You'll lose people. You'll disappoint yourself. And all of that—all of it—means you're real."
Then, softly: "I used to think imperfection meant failure. Now, I think it just means you're still becoming."
---
Aarav stepped back slightly, letting the weight of the words settle.
"You're not a line in a résumé. Or a highlight reel. You're not the number on your report card. Or the one test you failed. You're process."
His voice caught slightly. "And that's okay."
A long silence.
Then one final line.
"The straightest lines are often the shortest. But the ones that curve, hesitate, tremble — those go the furthest."
---
He bowed.
Stepped away from the mic.
And for a second, the entire auditorium stayed still.
Then the applause came — not thunderous, but sustained. Like waves, rolling in gently but refusing to fade.
Suhani was clapping, eyes glassy.
Kabir had that smug grin again, but this time it didn't hide anything.
It said: You did it.
---
Outside the auditorium, Aarav sat beneath the gulmohar tree.
It was shedding.
Bright red blossoms fell like drops of old flame around him.
He pulled out his notebook and opened to a blank page.
Suhani found him there.
No words.
No greetings.
She just sat beside him, placing her sketchpad on her lap.
He turned to her, exhaled slowly.
"That was hard," he admitted.
"You made it look easy," she said.
"Funny. I always thought people had to be perfect to be heard."
She shook her head. "You were honest. That's rarer."
They shared the silence.
Then, without a word, she pulled a charcoal pencil and began drawing.
He wrote.
---
Later that night, Aarav stood by his window.
The sky was cloudless. Quiet. Vast.
He whispered aloud, not expecting an answer:
"What if I stay unfinished forever?"
No reply came.
But the wind stirred the curtains gently — like a nod.
Like maybe… that was the point.