Sylas (Pov)-
I was a happy kid once.
Strange to say it now, I know. But I remember it clearly — the smell of rain on old concrete, the warm plastic of my school lunchbox, the clink of keys as dad came home from work, always humming some off-tune song under his breath.
We didn't have much. But we had enough. And somehow, that was everything.
My mom used to say I was a curious little monkey. Always asking questions.
"Why do clouds float?"
"If I close my eyes, do I disappear?"
"Can I grow wings if I eat two eggs every day?"
She never got tired of answering. Or at least she never showed it.
I'd sit on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, watching her roll chapatis like it was magic. She always let me press the dough, even though I ruined the shape every time.
"One day you'll make perfect circles," she used to say, smiling, "just like your dad."
Dad wasn't home often. He worked late shifts as a technician, sometimes gone before I woke up, sometimes home after I slept. But every time he was around, he made me feel like I was the center of his world.
We had this ritual.
He'd come home, drop his bag by the door, ruffle my hair and say, "So, what did the little professor learn today?"
Then we'd sit cross-legged on the floor, and I'd tell him everything. What I learned in school. Which kid cried during lunch. How I saw a crow steal someone's biscuit. He listened like it all mattered — like I mattered.
Back then, I didn't care about grades or competition. I just liked learning. I liked understanding things. How a clock ticked. How leaves changed color. Why people smiled when they were sad.
My parents never pushed me. They just encouraged me. That's the difference, isn't it? They never compared me to anyone. Never asked me to be the best. They just wanted me to try.
And I did. Not because I had to — but because I wanted to make them proud.
---
There was this one day I'll never forget.
I think I was around ten. I'd gotten full marks on a science test. First time ever. I ran home, paper crumpled in my fist, and shoved it in front of Mom's face like it was treasure.
She didn't even read it. She just pulled me into a hug, held me so tight I couldn't breathe.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered, her voice warm against my ear.
"Not because of the marks. But because you look so happy."
That stuck with me. Even now. Especially now.
---
My room was small. Just a single bed, a chipped study table, and a shelf full of second-hand books. But to me, it was my world. I'd spend hours reading — not just textbooks, but old novels, comics, anything I could find.
I liked stories. They made me feel like anything was possible. That even the quiet kid in the back of the class could be the hero, one day.
Funny how things turn out, isn't it?
---
Things started changing when I entered middle school.
Suddenly, everyone cared about grades. Tuitions, entrance exams, rankings — it was everywhere. The pressure crept in slowly, like a fog you don't notice until you can't see.
I didn't understand it at first. Why everyone was so scared. Why kids who used to laugh with me now cried over losing two marks. Why parents yelled over report cards. Why teachers stopped calling me "smart" when others started doing better.
"If you don't start preparing now, you'll fall behind."
"You don't want to disappoint your parents, do you?"
"Others are already doing mock tests. What are you doing?"
They said it like they cared. Like they wanted to help. But it didn't feel like help.
It felt like warning signs.
And I started changing.
Not all at once. It was slow. Subtle.
I studied more. Stopped asking silly questions. Laughed less. Talked less.
I told myself it was just a phase. That if I did well, things would go back to how they were.
But the more I tried, the more I felt like I was drowning.
---
Mom still smiled. Still made round chapatis. Still hugged me every time I came home, even when I came home with a blank face.
Dad still asked me what I learned — but sometimes, I had nothing to say.
Because I wasn't learning anymore. I was memorizing. Repeating. Competing.
I missed the old days. The kitchen counter. The comics. The late-night hair ruffles.
But I couldn't say that out loud.
Because everyone around me kept saying:
> "This is your future."
"Just bear it a little longer."
"Everyone goes through it."
Maybe they were right.
But I wish someone had told me it was okay to slow down. That failure wasn't the end. That worth isn't tied to numbers on a page.
Because by the time I realized that… it was already too late.
End of chapter