In a small, sunlit room filled with the gentle hum of a ceiling fan, a boy sat by the window, in the quiet posture of someone who had long grown used to carrying weights that didn't belong to his age. His name was Aarav, and though he was only nine years old, there was something in his eyes that belonged to someone far older—a kind of stillness, not born of peace, but of careful restraint.
Aarav was the kind of child who never asked for toys. He never threw tantrums for chocolates, never demanded new shoes even when his old ones were wearing thin at the soles, and never insisted on celebrating his birthday the way other children did—with balloons, cake, and a group of noisy friends. He believed—no, he knew—that his father had other things to worry about. Rent, electricity, school fees, his younger brother's tuition, the rising cost of vegetables, the crack in the wall that needed plastering. Aarav had noticed these things, quietly.
And so he learned early—perhaps far too early—that asking for things added weight to already burdened shoulders. And he didn't want that. Not for his father, whom he loved with a kind of fierce, aching admiration that hurt every time it was not returned in the way he hoped.
His father, Raghav, was a simple man. An honest, hardworking man who had grown up in hardship and carried those years like stones in his pockets, letting them guide every decision he made. He didn't believe in softness, in comfort, in anything that couldn't be measured by results or accounted for in sacrifice. For Raghav, love was not something you said—it was something you did. A roof over the head, food on the table, books for school, a future secured by education. That was his version of love. But for a child who sought warmth in words and understanding in silence, it was a language he could not fully grasp.
On most days, Aarav returned home from school, changed into his home clothes without being told, and sat down to study before his father could even raise an eyebrow. He didn't complain, not even when his head hurt or when the numbers on the math sheet began to blur. He did it because he wanted to be good. He did it because he thought, maybe this time, his father would look at him the way he looked at Aarav's younger brother—smiling, proud, unreserved.
But the smile never came. Only questions.
"Why did you lose two marks in English? That's where others score full. What were you doing?"
He would try to explain that he had studied, that he had even revised that one chapter twice, that the question was twisted and he misunderstood the last sentence. But explanations, in that house, were heard as excuses. His voice would trail off midway, his heart beating a little too fast, his throat tightening. And his father's tone—low, sharp, cutting—would do the rest.
"You have everything we didn't. We've given you good books, a good school, even tuition. At your age, I used to walk five kilometers just to attend school—and still topped the class. What will you do with your life, huh? Be a burden?"
That word—burden—landed like a slap across the soul.
And so Aarav stopped explaining. He stopped defending himself. He began to accept every scolding, every harsh word, with bowed head and quiet breath, convincing himself that maybe his father was right. Maybe he really wasn't trying hard enough. Maybe he really was a disappointment.
It was in Class 9 that the most unforgettable moment occurred. The day results were declared, Aarav stood in the school corridor, his report card in hand, fingers trembling just enough that the paper rustled as he walked into the room. His marks were not great—but not terrible either. Average. 68 percent overall. He had improved in Mathematics, done decently in Science, and had only faltered slightly in History and English.
He thought, perhaps, this time his father might say nothing at all. No praise, but also no scolding. Just...silence would be enough.
But what he got instead was worse than anything he had ever expected.
Raghav took the report card in front of the class teacher, who had always liked Aarav's gentle manners. He glanced at the scores and his face hardened, his mouth curling in disgust.
"Sixty-eight?" he scoffed. "This is what I get after paying for your school, tuition, and uniform? Do you even realize how much money I've spent on you? If you don't want to study, say it clearly. At least then I'll not waste it on a child who does nothing."
The teacher cleared her throat awkwardly, perhaps trying to divert the situation, but Raghav wasn't finished. "If you don't want to study," he continued, louder now, "you can repay me in some other way. Maybe start washing dishes in hotels? At least that way you'll earn back the money I have wasted."
Something broke inside Aarav that day. Not with a loud sound, but quietly—like a glass falling in slow motion, shattering without anyone noticing. His eyes didn't well up. He didn't protest. He didn't run out or scream. He just stood there, the cold air of the classroom settling into his chest, numbing everything.
That evening, he didn't open his books. He didn't eat much either. And when his younger brother teased him later, mocking his results with that same tone their father used, Aarav didn't retaliate. He just walked into his room, shut the door, and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly above.
From that day onward, something inside him changed. He no longer looked forward to doing well. Because what was the point? If he failed, he was scolded. If he tried and still failed, the scolding was worse. The pain was sharper, because it came despite the effort.
So he stopped trying.
He decided it was easier that way. If he was going to be scolded either way, better to be scolded without expectation. That way, the shame and guilt would sting less. The heartbreak wouldn't be quite so personal.
He stopped choosing clothes. If his father disapproved of anything even remotely fashionable, why bother picking at all?
He stopped asking to go anywhere. What was the point of requesting permission only to be refused or ridiculed?
He stopped speaking unless asked a direct question. Since speaking too much led to judgment, misunderstanding, or mockery.
He stopped smiling.
He stopped hoping.
He even stopped dreaming.
And in that silence, that dark cocoon he wove around himself, the world slowly began to forget him—not out of cruelty, but because he made it easy. He faded into corners, into back benches, into the background of group photos, into the gaps between conversations.
He watched others live their lives—laughing, arguing, choosing, failing, falling in love, dancing, singing, celebrating—and he felt like a ghost, observing a life that no longer belonged to him.
And yet, through it all, he never stopped loving his father.
That was the cruelest part of it all.
Even when the words hurt, when the silence stung, when his heart ached with all the things he couldn't say—he still looked up to his father with a longing so pure it could have broken mountains. He wanted nothing more than to be seen by him, not just as a report card, not as a future engineer or a lost investment—but as a son. A boy. A child. A human being.
But Raghav never saw it. At least, not yet.
And Aarav, only nine years old when it began, already knew something many adults take a lifetime to understand—that love, when laced with fear, grows in silence. And silence, when left too long, begins to speak in its own way.
Not with words.
But with distance. With loneliness. With fading eyes and quiet resignations.
And so, as the fan turned overhead and the world moved on outside his window, Aarav sat still—present, but no longer there.
A boy who never asked.
Because somewhere along the way, he had learned the answer was always no.