Some pain arrives loudly.
Some arrives quietly… and never leaves.
For Kihoru, pain had learned how to walk beside him without making sound.
Every morning, he woke before the sun—not because he was disciplined, but because sleeping too long meant risking his father's temper. The house never felt safe when the bottles were empty and his father's hands shook from needing more. Sometimes the anger came early. Sometimes late. But it always came.
So Kihoru learned to wake up before it found him.
He folded his blanket neatly. Washed his face quietly. Wore the same loose uniform that never quite fit his body. And without eating much, he left for school.
People said school was supposed to be a second home.
For him, it was just another place where he learned how to stay small.
A Classroom That Never Felt Like His
Class 3 smelled of dust and sweat and chalk. The windows were always half-open, letting noise from outside flood in—kids shouting, birds crying, horns blaring from the road. But inside, the atmosphere felt tighter.
Kihoru sat in the same seat every day. Last bench. Near the wall. Near invisibility.
The teacher called names. Students answered loudly. When Kihoru's name came, his voice always sounded wrong in the room—too soft, too unsure. A few giggles followed every time.
"Kihoru, read from page 46," the teacher said.
He stood up, holding the book with both hands. His fingers trembled faintly. Letters swam in front of his eyes—not because he couldn't read, but because he could feel people waiting for him to mess up.
He started reading.
He didn't stutter.
He didn't pause.
He did everything right.
Still, laughter rose.
Not because he failed.
But because he was him.
Rithvik didn't laugh loudly. He never needed to. His smile alone made others laugh harder.
"Enough," the teacher said without looking up. "Sit."
Kihoru sat.
No praise.
No defense.
Nothing.
Recess Was Worse Than Class
Recess meant freedom for everyone else.
For Kihoru, it meant exposure.
As soon as he opened his lunchbox, the shadow fell across his desk.
Rithvik.
"Same food every day," he said lazily. "Do you even have taste buds?"
Kihoru said nothing.
Rithvik reached into his lunchbox without permission and grabbed a piece of food. Took a bite. Chewed slowly. Then spat it back into the box.
"Disgusting."
The class laughed.
Kihoru stared at the ruined food. His chest tightened painfully.
That was his lunch.
That was his only proper meal.
"Pick it up," Rithvik said.
Slowly, Kihoru picked it up.
Dust clung to it.
He hesitated only a second.
Then he ate it.
The laughter faded into awkward silence.
Even bullies found something unsettling about watching someone swallow humiliation so completely.
The Girl Who Wouldn't Look Away
Later, near the water tap, Aanya found him washing his hands again and again.
"You didn't have to eat that," she said quietly.
Kihoru shrugged. "Food is food."
She hesitated. "Why do you let him do it?"
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer. "You know it's wrong, right?"
Kihoru finally looked at her. "It's normal."
Aanya's eyes softened.
"No," she said gently. "It's not."
That word not stayed in his chest all day.
The Long Walk Home
On the way home, the stray dog followed him again.
This time, he stopped.
It was thin. Its ribs showed. One ear was torn slightly. But its eyes were alive.
"You again…" he whispered.
He gave it his biscuit. The dog ate eagerly, then wagged its tail.
Kihoru sat on the pavement beside it for a few minutes.
"You don't hate me," he said quietly.
The dog leaned against him.
He didn't remember the last time anyone had done that.
Home Was a Different Battlefield
That night, his father came home angry again.
Not shouting at first.
That was always worse.
The calm before the storm.
When the shouting started, Kihoru locked his door and sat on his bed with his knees pulled to his chest. The walls were thin. Every word passed through them.
He covered his ears.
Not to block the sound.
But to block the feeling.
The Whisper That Grew Louder
Days passed like this.
Humiliation at school.
Silence at home.
Loneliness everywhere.
But somewhere inside him, a voice had started whispering.
What if this isn't forever?
What if this isn't all you are?
He didn't know why the thoughts came.
He only knew they wouldn't leave.
When the King Fell Slightly
One day, the entire class buzzed with quiet excitement.
Rithvik had been slapped by a senior.
Publicly.
The boy who ruled their class with fear had been humiliated.
Kihoru felt something strange when he heard it.
Not happiness.
Not satisfaction.
Just disbelief.
Rithvik entered the classroom with fire in his eyes.
And his gaze locked onto Kihoru.
Not because Kihoru had done anything.
But because bullies always searched for someone weaker than their pain.
Behind the staircase, Rithvik shoved him hard.
"You think I'm weak now?" he growled.
Kihoru shook his head slowly.
"No."
Rithvik leaned closer. "Then what?"
Kihoru hesitated. Then said quietly,
"I think you're angry."
Rithvik shoved him again and walked away.
But his face wasn't confident anymore.
It was confused.
A Body That Learned to Endure
That night, Kihoru lay on his bed staring at the ceiling fan.
He remembered every shove.
Every insult.
Every stolen lunch.
Every time he was told to stay quiet.
And for the first time…
He wondered what it would feel like to not endure.
He didn't want revenge.
He didn't dream of power.
He just didn't want to feel small anymore.
The Question That Changed Everything
Before sleep took him, one thought repeated endlessly:
"If I don't change… will this ever stop?"
He didn't have the answer.
But the question alone meant something inside him had already begun to move.