It was the first day of the new school year, but Mazen felt neither excitement nor anxiety; he simply lay there as if nothing was about to change.
The alarm rang for the fourth time. He silenced it with the hand dangling off the bed's edge and muttered:
— First day? Great... an extra day for sleep.
His mother rushed in, scarf tied hastily over her hair, her face already showing the signs of a battle about to begin.
— Mazen! It's the first day of school! Get up before everyone leaves you behind!
He lifted his head a little, then buried his face back into the pillow.
— Don't worry, Mom... I'll just start from the second day. That's more fair.
— Get up, boy! Or my hands will have to intervene!
— Okay, okay... I'm getting up.
In the kitchen, there was no smell of oil, no pancakes—just warm tea and stale bread from yesterday.
Mazen sat at the table, staring at the single egg split in half and the glass of milk he never longed for.
— Mom, why don't we celebrate the first day of school with something tasty?
— We celebrate when you succeed, not when you start. Drink before it gets cold.
— I'll drink the milk... only because life's rules are unfair.
Muaz chuckled as he packed his bag.
— I feel like Mazen's going on a strike against education.
Mazen answered with mock seriousness:
— Not a strike... just a temporary intellectual retirement.
Their mother laughed despite her worries, then handed them a small allowance.
— Don't waste it all on sweets... and take care of yourselves.
Mazen accepted the coins silently, hiding a look only he could see:
"I know this is all you have today... and I won't ask for more."
He stepped into the crowded street, students filling the alleys with laughter. But he walked slowly, watching their faces; one excited, another nervous, one girl trying hard to hide her tears.
He whispered to himself:
"Their feelings are louder than their voices... but no one hears them."
In his new classroom, he chose the back seat as always, as if the front rows carried some infection.
A new teacher entered, a man in his forties, speaking in a calm voice:
— Good morning... I hope this year will be kind to you. I'm Sameh Al-Badri, your social studies teacher.
Mazen barely listened. He kept studying his classmates instead. A pen rolled onto the floor near him; he picked it up, handing it back after meeting the boy's eyes. For a moment, it felt like he was looking at someone kind—a child longing for attention more than trust.
He said softly:
— Here's your pen.
In the second period, his gray eye pulsed quietly. It didn't glow, but grew heavy, as if resisting something inside him.
"Not now... just let me live one normal day."
He shut his eyes, opened his book, and didn't read a single line.
During recess, he sat alone in the corner of the garden, watching thin rays of sunlight pierce the clouds.
The boy with the pen approached.
— So you're new here, huh?
— No. I just hate being noticed.
— What's your name?
— Mazen. And you?
— Ziad. You seem smart... are you, really?
Mazen smirked.
— Sadly... kind of.
Ziad laughed, then said eagerly:
— Then be my rival in the exams!
— I don't like rivalries... but fine, as you wish.
Mazen returned home before dusk; his mother was in the kitchen, Muaz was studying, and the house was drowning in a strange silence.
He entered his room, closed the door, sat before the mirror, and stared at his eyes... shifting to gray, then back to black.
He whispered:
— I don't want to be a hero... I just want to live as a regular ninth grader.
But a small voice inside him—one that wasn't his own—replied:
"You know that will never happen."