I never used to care about mornings.
They came and went like every other day — hollow, grey, and heavy with the same silence I carried in my chest. But today, the air felt different. I couldn't explain it, but something had shifted since that brief conversation with Kaiya.
Maybe it was the way she looked at me — not like I was useless, not like I was invisible. But like I was meant to be seen. It scared me more than it should have.
At school, things hadn't changed much. I still sat at the back of the class, ignored. Still walked past groups who laughed like they were in another world I wasn't invited to. But my mind wasn't as silent anymore.
"You don't look like a mistake to me," she'd said.
That sentence had been ringing in my head all night.
We crossed paths again during the lunch break. She was sitting beneath the old banyan tree near the basketball court, flipping through a worn-out book that looked older than the school itself.
I hesitated for a second — then walked toward her.
"Hey," I said, awkward as always.
She looked up, smiled, and patted the spot next to her. "I was hoping you'd come."
Something in my chest did a weird flip. I sat.
"I've seen you sketch during class," she said. "You're good."
I froze. "Wait… what?"
"I sit behind you in History, genius. You think I wouldn't notice the guy drawing entire worlds in his notebook while the rest of us die of boredom?"
I chuckled nervously. No one had ever mentioned my drawings before. Not my parents. Not teachers. Certainly not friends — because I didn't have any.
"It's just… stuff," I muttered. "Nothing serious."
"Then make it serious."
I looked at her. There was no sarcasm, no pity — just quiet belief. Like she'd already seen who I could be, long before I even believed in him.
That evening, back home, the storm returned.
My father was yelling again. Something about the electricity bill, or maybe the marks I didn't score, or maybe the fact that I existed at all. I didn't really listen anymore.
"Waste of space," he muttered, as I stood by the doorway.
I didn't reply. I didn't cry. I just slipped into my room, shut the door, and pulled out my notebook.
And for the first time in a long time, I drew something that mattered.
A boy, half-submerged in dark waters, hands reaching for the surface. Above him, light broke through — not from the sky, but from within his chest.
It wasn't perfect. But it was me.
The next day, Kaiya asked if I wanted to stay after school and sit in the art room. She said the sunlight hit differently at that hour, and it helped her think. I said yes without even hesitating.
We sat there, painting, sketching, sharing little things about life — things we hadn't told anyone else.
She told me about her mother's illness. About how she hated being strong all the time, but had no choice.
I told her about my father. About how being called a curse stopped hurting a long time ago — it just became the truth I carried.
"Then it's time to rewrite that truth," she said.
That night, I didn't just draw.I created.
And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something real.
End of Chapter 2