The ceiling fan made that tired creaking sound again, like it didn't want to spin anymore.
Vihaan lay flat on the cold floor, not because he liked it, but because the bed had cracked two weeks ago and no one had bothered to fix it.
He stared at the ceiling.
A spider in the corner.
A long line of dust near the bulb.
A crack running like a scar from one end to the other.
His mother's voice came from the kitchen, weak but routine.
"Vihaan, you're getting late."
He didn't reply.
He just blinked slowly, then sat up without saying a word. The room was dim, one window half-covered by a torn curtain. No posters. No pictures. Just peeling paint and silence.
His uniform was folded neatly near the corner — two shirts, one pant. Ironed, but too old to hide its age. The collar was fading. The cloth felt thin on his skin.
He didn't look in the mirror.
He already knew what he'd see.
A thin boy with uncombed hair. Dark circles under dull brown eyes. A face that always looked tired, even after sleep.
Vihaan.
He picked up his school bag — the same one from eighth grade, stitched twice. One strap was tied with blue thread, barely holding together. The zipper opened halfway and got stuck.
His mother walked in and handed him a small tiffin box.
"I could only make potato with salt," she said. "There's nothing else left."
He took it from her hands and nodded.
"Thank you."
That was it. No extra words. No fake smiles. Just a quiet exchange — like every other morning.
He wore chappals again. His shoes had torn a month ago and they still hadn't managed to replace them. He'd stopped asking.
Then, without looking back, he left the house.
---
The walk to school was short. Familiar.
Same broken road. Same tea stalls. Same early morning noise.
Scooters passed by with kids in polished shoes, laughing, being dropped off by their fathers.
Vihaan just kept walking — head low, steps slow.
The school gate came into view. Big, rusting, with a fading quote on top:
"Excellence is our habit."
Vihaan stepped in.
The school was already alive with noise — students chatting, laughing, shouting, moving around like the world was theirs.
Nobody looked at him.
Nobody waved.
Nobody even noticed he had arrived.
He passed a group of boys. One of them looked at his torn bag, whispered something, and they all laughed quietly.
He didn't stop.
He entered his class — 10th B — and walked to the last bench near the window. His usual spot.
Not because he liked it.
But because it was always empty.
As he sat down, the wooden bench creaked under him. He placed his bag on the desk and looked out the window.
The sky was pale. Cloudy.
Even the sun looked like it didn't want to show up today.
He heard voices behind him.
"Still wearing those same chappals?"
"Guess the topper's brains don't earn him any shoes."
He didn't turn around.
It wasn't the first time. And probably not the last.
He just closed his eyes for a moment and let the words float past him.
He didn't hate them.
He just... didn't feel anything anymore.
The class slowly filled up. Friends greeting friends. Notes being passed. Stories being shared.
And Vihaan, sitting in the corner like background noise.
Then the teacher walked in — Mrs. D'Souza. English.
Everyone stood up. "Good morning, ma'am!"
She didn't even glance at Vihaan.
As the class settled, her eyes scanned the room.
"Let's begin with the essay submissions. Roll number 3, Aarav — come forward."
One by one, students went up.
When Vihaan's turn came — roll number 17 — she just said, without looking up,
"Leave yours on the desk."
He walked to the front, placed his essay gently on the edge.
She didn't take it.
He stood there for a second longer.
Still nothing.
He walked back without a word.
He sat down. Back to the window. His fingers curled slightly on the desk. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad.
He just… existed.
A bird flew past outside.
And somewhere deep in his chest, a small voice whispered something he wouldn't say out loud.
"Even the stars... they must've forgotten my name too."