The sky was gray that morning.
Not the dramatic kind of gray that warned of storms—just a dull, lifeless shade that made everything look tired. Kihoru noticed it as he walked to school, his hands buried inside the loose pockets of his hoodie, his bag dragging slightly to one side.
He felt heavier than usual.
Not his body.
His chest.
Something inside him felt tight, like a knot that had been pulled too hard for too long.
A Normal Day That Wasn't Normal
The classroom sounded the same as always.
Chairs scraping.
Students shouting.
Teachers complaining.
Life moving forward without caring who it crushed beneath it.
Kihoru sat in his usual seat—the last bench near the wall. The safest place. Or at least, the place where people noticed him the least.
Rithvik entered late.
Loud.
Confident.
Untouchable.
His eyes met Kihoru's for half a second.
And for that half second, something felt… wrong.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just tension.
The Smallest Humiliation Can Be the Deepest
During English class, the teacher asked students to submit their notebooks.
When Kihoru stood up to walk toward the front, Rithvik stuck his foot out under the desk.
Not enough to trip him completely.
Just enough to make him stumble.
The class laughed.
Kihoru steadied himself quickly and kept walking like nothing had happened.
But inside—
Something peeled.
A layer that had been holding him together scraped away.
The teacher took his notebook without looking at him.
No one cared.
They never did.
Recess — Where Pretending Became Impossible
Kihoru didn't even open his lunchbox this time.
He just sat there, staring at the desk.
Hunger twisted inside his stomach, but he ignored it. It hurt less than humiliation.
Rithvik noticed.
Of course he did.
"Not eating today?" he smirked. "On a diet now, vending machine?"
Kihoru stayed silent.
Rithvik reached for the lunchbox anyway.
And this time—
Kihoru placed his hand over it.
Not tightly.
Not violently.
Just… firmly.
The class went quiet.
Rithvik slowly looked up at him.
"What?" he asked.
Kihoru's voice came out weak… but real.
"Don't."
The word wasn't loud.
But it wasn't empty either.
Rithvik laughed lightly. "You're funny today."
He slapped Kihoru's hand away and took the lunch anyway.
And just like that—
The tiny courage Kihoru had gathered shattered again.
He didn't chase the food.
He didn't beg.
He just watched it disappear.
The Only Person Who Tried Again
Aanya came to his desk later.
She didn't smile today.
She didn't joke.
She just asked quietly,
"How long are you going to let this happen?"
Kihoru didn't answer.
She sighed. "You think staying silent is saving you… but it's not. It's just teaching everyone that you don't matter."
That sentence hit harder than Rithvik's shove ever had.
"You matter," she continued. "Even if you don't believe it."
Kihoru looked at her for a moment.
Then he looked away.
Because believing that would hurt more than staying numb.
The Final Push
After school, Rithvik cornered him behind the staircase again.
It had become their place.
A place where no teachers went.
A place where nothing mattered.
"You've been acting strange lately," Rithvik said. "Growing confidence or something?"
Kihoru didn't reply.
Rithvik shoved him.
Harder than usual.
Kihoru hit the wall.
His bag fell open.
Books scattered.
Rithvik stared down at him. "Pick them up."
Kihoru didn't move.
For the first time…
He truly didn't want to move.
Not because he was brave.
But because he was empty.
Rithvik kicked one of the books. "I said pick it up."
Kihoru slowly bent down and picked up one book.
Then another.
Then another.
But his hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From pressure.
Years of it.
Rithvik smiled. "Good boy."
That was it.
That word.
Boy.
Not his name.
Not a person.
Just something owned.
Something beneath.
Something disposable.
The Walk That Felt Different
Kihoru didn't cry that day.
Not at school.
Not on the road.
Not even when the stray dog followed him again, limping softly behind him.
He shared his biscuit silently.
He didn't speak.
He didn't smile.
He just walked.
And for the first time, he noticed how tired he truly was.
Not sleepy-tired.
Existence-tired.
Home Was the Final Straw
That night, his father came home drunk earlier than usual.
The shouting started faster.
Louder.
Angrier.
A plate shattered.
His mother cried.
And suddenly, without thinking, Kihoru stood up from his bed.
Not to run.
Not to hide.
He simply stood.
His fists were trembling.
Not with fear.
With something new.
Something frightening.
Something that didn't want to stay quiet anymore.
His father's voice roared through the house.
"You useless woman—!"
Kihoru stepped out of his room.
The hallway felt colder than ever.
His heart pounded.
His legs wanted to retreat.
But something inside his chest screamed louder:
Enough.
He didn't shout.
He didn't fight.
He simply spoke.
"Stop."
One word.
Thin.
Fragile.
But real.
The house went silent.
His father turned slowly, eyes bloodshot, confused.
"What did you say?"
Kihoru swallowed.
His voice trembled.
But he didn't go back.
"Stop."
For a second—
Just one—
His father stared at him.
Then he laughed.
A harsh, broken laugh.
"You think you're big now?"
The shouting came back worse than before.
Kihoru retreated to his room.
Locked the door.
And slid down onto the floor.
But something was different.
Even though he lost—
He had spoken.
The Birth of a Decision
That night, alone in his room, shaking in the dark, Kihoru hugged his knees and whispered something he had never allowed himself to say before:
"I don't want to live like this."
Tears fell silently.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just steady.
For years, he had survived.
Now…
For the first time…
He wanted more than survival.
He didn't dream of being a hero.
He didn't dream of revenge.
He didn't dream of power.
He just wanted—
To stop feeling small.
To stop feeling helpless.
To stop feeling like his life belonged to someone else.
He wiped his eyes.
His breathing slowed.
And for the first time…
He made a promise.
Not to the world.
Not to anyone else.
To himself.
"I will change."
He didn't know how.
He didn't know when.
He didn't know where to start.
But the broken child had finally reached the edge.
The End of the Broken Child
Outside, the night remained silent.
The world didn't change.
The school would still be the same.
Rithvik would still be cruel.
His father would still drink.
Life would still be unfair.
But something inside Kihoru was no longer asleep.
It was awake.
Weak.
Shaking.
But awake.
And that was enough.