I recognized him the moment he walked through the classroom door.
Rehan.
The kind of name that feels like a splinter under the skin when spoken out loud.
He wasn't just some guy from my past — he was the reason I stopped drawing for nearly a year in middle school. Rehan had a talent for spotting weakness, and I was an open canvas of it back then. I still remembered his words, thrown like knives during group projects, whispered like poison during breaks.
"Kai? Like cry? Fits him."
I'd spent that whole year shrinking under desks, pretending my fingers were too stiff to sketch.
Now he stood in front of the class, tall, confident, as if the past had never happened.
"Looks like the prodigal artist is still here," he said when the teacher left the room, giving me a smirk like the years between us never passed.
My stomach tightened. But I didn't flinch.
Not this time.
Kaiya noticed instantly.
"Who is he?"
I told her everything. Every single wound Rehan ever carved into me. She didn't interrupt. Just listened, her fists tightening the longer I spoke.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked.
"No," I said. "But I'll face him anyway."
She nodded, and something passed between us in that moment — not pity, not sympathy.
Solidarity.
The next few days were a silent war.
Rehan didn't say much. But the tension grew like cracks in glass. Small things. My locker mysteriously jammed. My water bottle emptied and filled with ink. And somehow, the rumor spread that I had stolen someone's digital art idea — Kaiya's.
I knew exactly who started it.
But I didn't react.
Instead, I let my work speak louder.
We had a school showcase coming up — a themed project based on Identity. Every student had to submit one piece of work: a short story, a song, a visual, a poem.
I chose a concept I had never dared to attempt before: a sound-activated painting. The image would change slightly depending on the voice it heard — a visual reflection of how we become who we are through the voices around us.
I poured everything into it. Every emotion. Every memory of being called a failure. Every silent stare from my parents. Every time Kaiya lifted me back up.
She helped with the wiring and audio trigger system. I handled the painting. It showed a boy made of shattered glass — faceless — with hands reaching out from every side. As voices played, the boy's posture changed. Weak. Angry. Brave. Afraid. Determined.
When it worked during our test run, we both just stood in silence.
"Will you let your voice be the one that defines him?" the display whispered at the end.
Kaiya's voice, of course.
The day of the showcase arrived.
I could feel Rehan's eyes burning holes into the back of my head as I set up the final display. But I didn't look back. My work would be my answer.
The exhibit hall buzzed with excitement. Students walked around, headphones in, marveling at voice-reactive visuals, kinetic poems, animated sculptures.
And then, they reached mine.
One by one, people spoke into the mic. Each voice changed the boy. Sad eyes shifted to proud. A hunched back straightened. The shattered glass began to piece itself together.
Some stood and stared, visibly moved.
Teachers applauded quietly.
One even asked me if I'd consider entering it in an interschool art-tech competition.
But Rehan… he stood there with arms crossed, smirking.
Until his voice activated the piece.
The boy's face distorted. The background darkened. The hands around him turned red, threatening. For a moment, the entire image looked like it was collapsing inward.
Everyone stared.
And then, Kaiya stepped up.
She placed her hand on the mic.
"Kai," she said.
The screen flickered.
The shattered boy stood tall. The background cleared. One of the red hands turned gold — reaching forward, not to hurt, but to help.
And then… it all stopped.
Silence.
A slow clap.
And then real applause.
No one needed context. They felt it.
Even if they didn't know the story — they understood the struggle.
Rehan left the room without saying a word.
But I knew this wasn't over.
That night, I found a folded piece of paper inside my art bag. No signature. Just a few words:
"You haven't won. You just got lucky. Watch your back."
I didn't show it to Kaiya. Not yet.
Instead, I pinned it beside the sketch of the half-submerged boy I drew back in Chapter 2 — a reminder.
Some people want you to drown because they fear what you'll become when you finally breathe.
Back at home, I sat beside Kaiya on the terrace. The stars above looked like scattered sparks waiting to ignite.
"I used to think people like me weren't meant to be noticed," I said.
"And now?"
"Now I think we were just waiting for the right moment to be seen."
She smiled, leaned her head on my shoulder. "You're not invisible anymore, Kai. And you never were to me."
I didn't reply. I didn't have to.
But the wind carried something that felt like thunder far away.
And this time, I wasn't afraid of it.
End of Chapter 11