[Her POV – Present Day]
Another Thursday.
Another story.
He walked in late again, holding a paper cup of cold coffee like it was a shield from the world. I didn't ask why. I just slid the chair out and opened my notebook — not to take notes, but to listen. Ayan didn't like interruptions. He told his stories like pouring water — if you stopped it midway, it wouldn't flow the same again.
This time, he didn't even say hello.
He just sat, stared out the window for a few seconds, then whispered, almost to himself, "I was in fourth grade when I stopped being a child."
[Ayan's Story – Past]
After two long years of silence, my father remarried.
My new stepmother was named Shagufta Parveen, but if you ever saw her, you'd think her name was "discipline" itself. Strict didn't even begin to explain it — she treated the house like a jail and us kids like prisoners. Her voice was always loud, her hand always ready with a belt, and her love? Only reserved for her own kids — Bilal and Laiza.
At first, I thought maybe she'd change. Maybe we just needed time.
But no.
Her face never softened. Her words never grew kind.
And it started making sense… why my school had changed again.
We had moved into her world, not ours.
I was thrown straight into Class 4, skipping 3rd altogether. A new school, new books, unfamiliar faces. I didn't even know how to use the bathrooms properly there. Everything felt off.
We lived far from school, so all four of us siblings used the school van every day. We were always the last to be dropped off, cramped in the back, half-asleep by the time our stop came.
At the very end of the van — same as us — sat a small group: mostly girls and one quiet boy. They weren't new passengers; they were regulars. The ones who sat in the corner, legs tucked in, bags squished between their knees, whispering jokes and songs only they could understand.
One of them was Mariyam.
She was smart — especially in Urdu. Fluent, expressive, confident. The kind of girl who finished her papers early and spent the rest of class doodling pretty borders.
I, on the other hand, was… well, trash at Urdu.
Still am.
We were classmates. But that didn't mean we were friends. We just existed in the same room, solving different papers, speaking different languages.
But someone else became my friend.
Ifa.
She was in 3rd grade. Short hair. Wore mismatched hairbands and always carried her lunch in a rectangle steel tiffin. We'd hang out during breaks. Save lunch for later. Talk about cartoons. She was simple. Kind. Uncomplicated.
And then… things started falling apart again.
Back home, Shagufta became unbearable.
She'd shout for everything — even if the lightbulb flickered.
If we didn't finish food fast enough, she'd yell.
If my sister forgot to sweep the floor, she'd throw the broom.
We tried everything. I even called my Nana — my mother's father.
He came.
He saw.
And he said just one thing to my dad:"If this place isn't livable, then leave."
And you know what my dad said?
"I don't want to stay either."
That's all it took.
The next day, he left.
Just like that.
He walked out with his suitcase and didn't look back. No goodbye. No plan. No future.
And we were left behind with our grandparents, with nothing but silence and a broken school routine.
I stopped going to school the next morning.
Not because I was sad.
Because we couldn't afford it anymore.
[Her POV – Present Day]
He stopped speaking for a full minute after that.
I didn't know what to say.
There was this strange heaviness in the room — like even the fan had stopped turning for him.
"I used to be smart," he added finally, eyes low. "Topped my class once. Then life said, 'That's enough.'"
I wanted to reach across the table and say something — anything — but I didn't.
He didn't want sympathy.
So I just closed my notebook.
We stepped out of the office.
He lit a cigarette — then put it back before lighting it.
And we walked in silence.
His story still echoing in my chest.
Maybe… that was the chapter where his story stopped being boring.
Maybe that's the chapter where I started caring.