Some stories begin with a grand twist. Some with a tragedy. But this one begins with a boy—standing at the edge of sixteen, with a backpack on his shoulder and a storm in his heart. His eyes held the shine of dreams he had shaped alone, and his smile… well, it was the kind that made people believe he had it all. But not everything is as it seems. This is the story of a boy raised away from home, in the arms of silence and discipline, where letters replaced hugs and birthdays came with gifts but no faces. This is the story of Shriyansh—the golden boy of Hillford Academy, and the questions he could no longer silence.
Shriyansh was just six years old when his parents brought him to the prestigious Hillford Residential Academy, nestled in the serene hills, far away from the chaos of city life and even farther from his small hometown. Now, a decade later, he was sixteen—a tall, athletic, and bright young boy who had grown into someone everyone admired. With a charming smile, ever-helpful nature, and a spark in his eyes.
At first glance, Shriyansh looked like the hero straight out of a young adult novel. He stood tall at nearly 5'11", with a lean, athletic build honed from years of early morning runs, basketball drills, and inter-school championships. His dusky skin glowed with youthful energy, and his deep-set hazel eyes—calm, observant, and slightly melancholic—often made people stop mid-conversation. His thick, wavy hair always looked perfectly messy, as though it refused to be tamed, much like the boy himself.
He is known across the campus not only for his excellent academic performance but also for his brilliance in sports. He was the captain of the school's basketball team and a two-time inter-school debate champion.
Whether he was walking across the assembly ground or helping juniors with their assignments, eyes naturally followed him. Girls, especially, found it hard to hide their admiration. Some blushed when he passed by, others giggled when he smiled their way. There were plenty of whispers—"Did you see how good he looked today in the sports jersey?", or "I swear he's like straight out of a Netflix show!"
But Shriyansh seemed unaware. Or perhaps, he just didn't care.
Because even with all that attention, all that love from afar, there was something distant about him. Like a part of him was always somewhere else. His friends said he was mature beyond his years, calm in chaos, loyal to the core. He was the boy who topped in mathematics and literature with equal ease, the boy who could sketch a scene from memory or recite a poem at the annual fest. Yet no one had ever seen him cry. Or lose his temper. Or talk about his family.
He had a natural talent for leadership and compassion. Teachers praised his discipline, juniors adored his friendly approach, and peers loved his humor. He was the kind of boy who could lift anyone's mood with his witty jokes or calm someone down with a heartfelt talk.
In the hostel, he was both loved and envied. His dorm room was always neat, his schedule strict. Lights out at 10. Wake up at 5. Practice, study, lead. Win. Repeat.
But late at night, when everyone was asleep, Shriyansh would sit by the window of Room 207, staring out at the forest-lined horizon, clutching the last letter his parents had sent. And in those quiet hours, all the medals, compliments, and secret admirers in the world couldn't fill the space where a mother's hug or a father's hand should've been.
He had lived away from his hometown for ten long years—ten years without a single visit back. Ten years of being the perfect son, the ideal student, the popular kid.
At first, it had felt like an adventure—a new place, new friends, and freedom from parental restrictions. But as years passed, while other students went home for holidays, hugged their parents during PTMs, and showed off home-cooked treats, Shriyansh stayed back. Every single time.
His parents never visited. Not even once.
All he ever got were gifts and letters—sent like clockwork on his birthday, Diwali, Holi, or when he won competitions. Neatly wrapped presents with a note that always began with "We're proud of you" and ended with "Stay focused, son. We'll meet when the time is right."
For years, he consoled himself with those letters. He read them again and again, imagining his mother's soft voice and his father's warm hands ruffling his hair. He convinced himself they loved him deeply, but had their reasons. Maybe they were working abroad, maybe someone was ill at home, maybe he would understand when he grew up.
But now, four months have passed. Four months, and not a single letter. No messages. No calls. No parcel. Nothing.
At first, he waited patiently. Maybe they were just busy. Then he got restless. Every time the hostel warden walked in with a bunch of envelopes, his heart pounded—but his name was never called.
Shriyansh stopped smiling the way he used to. He laughed at jokes but didn't feel them. His basketball practice became more intense, not from passion—but from the need to escape his thoughts. He began to spend long hours alone on the terrace of the hostel, staring at the stars, wondering why he wasn't enough for his parents to come back for.
He never told anyone, not even his closest friend, Aarav. Aarav had been his roommate since class 5, almost like a brother. Aarav often teased him, "Yaar, tujhe toh VIP parents mile hain! Letters, gifts, but no yelling and no scolding!" Shriyansh used to laugh at the joke. But now it hurts. It wasn't funny anymore.
One night, as he sat by the window with his unopened textbook lying beside him, the pain turned into anger.
Why? Why had they never allowed him to return home even once in ten years?
Was he a burden they wanted to keep far away?
Were they even alive? Or had they just abandoned him quietly?
How could they disappear just like that?
The questions burned inside him. He was done waiting. He had been the obedient son all his life. He had given them everything they ever asked—discipline, trophies, certificates, medals—but what did he get?
A hostel bed. Letters. And silence.
With trembling fingers, he took out the last letter they had sent. It was dated four months and three days ago. He stared at the fading ink, tears pooling in his eyes.
And now, for the first time… he was done. He was no longer the boy who waited.
He was the boy who wanted answers.