The Boy Who Forgot to Dream

Aarav never liked the rain, not because he feared getting wet or catching a cold, but because it reminded him of things that never stayed—of puddles that dried too fast, of umbrellas that turned inside out, of voices that echoed only to disappear beneath the drum of falling water. Yet, on some days, when the sky darkened and the soft patter of rain filled the silence of his room, he would sit by the window and fold little paper boats from old notebooks.

He would fold each boat carefully, crease by crease, smoothing out the edges with a quiet precision, and then place them in the shallow puddle just outside the front gate where the rainwater collected and flowed down the broken cement path. The boats never lasted more than a minute—some tipped, some tore, some got swallowed by the current—but Aarav never minded. They were not made to last. They were made to go.

Much like the pieces of himself he had started letting go of, bit by bit, without fanfare or notice.

When he was younger—perhaps six or seven—he had once asked his father for a small red remote-controlled car that his classmate had brought to school. His father hadn't raised his voice that day. He had simply said, "You want that? Earn it with marks. Get first rank, and I'll buy you two." It was not said with cruelty. It was a deal, a trade, a transaction of effort and reward. And to a child, it had sounded almost fair.

Aarav had studied hard that year. He remembered staying up late, memorizing textbook lines until his eyes burned, skipping playtime to sit with guides and notebooks, writing out multiplication tables on his bedroom wall so he would see them first thing every morning. He didn't get the first rank. He got fourth.

And he never asked again.

From that day onward, the act of wanting became foreign to him. Wanting was dangerous—it led to expectations, and expectations led to disappointment, and disappointment brought those sharp words that cut deeper than they should have. And so he stopped wanting. He learned to live with what was given, with what was considered "enough."

When his school shoes wore out, he patched the soles with glue and cardboard for weeks before his mother noticed. When his tiffin box cracked, he taped it from the inside and ate carefully so the lid wouldn't slip off. When the other boys in school began wearing watches, wristbands, colorful laces, and personalized keychains, Aarav quietly removed the few stickers he had once placed on his bag. Fashion, individuality—these were things that invited attention. And attention, in his life, often brought only criticism.

He didn't resent his parents. Not even once. That was the most tragic thing about Aarav—he loved them deeply, fully, without question, even when they failed to see what was happening to him. He loved them with the loyalty of someone who believed that if he just tried hard enough, someday they would see him—not the marks, not the mistakes, not the missed expectations, but him.

But that day had not yet come.

His mother, Meena, was kinder than his father, though not in the way Aarav needed. She was gentle, yes. She remembered to feed him on time, to comb his hair before school, to stitch his torn uniform pocket without being asked. But she never stood between him and the words that tore him down. She never said, "Enough." She never said, "Don't talk to him like that."

Perhaps she thought silence was protection. Perhaps she thought not interfering was neutrality. But silence too, Aarav had learned, can wound. It can confirm what you fear most—that maybe you deserve what you're getting.

One evening, Aarav returned home to find his younger brother, Veer, proudly flaunting a new cricket bat their father had bought. Veer was only nine, two years younger than Aarav, and had a boldness in him that Aarav lacked. He asked for things. He demanded. And more often than not, he received. His report card was not much different—barely a few marks here and there—but Raghav saw something in Veer, some reflection of himself perhaps, that he failed to see in Aarav.

"You never ask for anything," Veer taunted casually, swinging the bat in the hallway. "Maybe that's why you get nothing."

Aarav didn't reply. He only smiled faintly and walked into his room, unzipping his school bag and placing the books on his desk as though he hadn't heard a thing. But he had. He always heard everything.

He sat that night by his study lamp, not studying, but simply sitting, his elbows on the table, his chin resting on the backs of his hands. He stared at the wall, where a spider was slowly spinning a web near the corner. It moved with a rhythm, patient and precise, as if it knew exactly what it was doing. Watching it, Aarav felt a pang of something unfamiliar—jealousy, perhaps? Not of the spider's simplicity, but of its clarity. It knew where it was going. It had a path. Aarav had none.

School, for him, had become less about learning and more about surviving. Every lesson was a potential trap—one misunderstood question, and he could face another scolding. Every test was a battlefield. And the worst part wasn't even the pressure to score; it was the knowledge that no matter what he did, it wouldn't be enough.

One term, he scored 81%. It was his highest ever. He had worked silently, secretly, for weeks—no cartoons, no cricket on TV, no time wasted on anything that might give his father a reason to say, "You didn't focus." When he handed the report card over, heart pounding, he imagined—just for a second—that maybe this time, his father would say, "Good job."

But Raghav had merely glanced at the paper and said, "You finally did it. Took you long enough. But still, look at English—77? Could've been better."

And that was it.

Aarav said nothing, nodded, and went to his room. He didn't cry. Not because he was strong, but because the tears had stopped coming a long time ago. Crying had once brought sympathy. Then it brought scolding. Now it brought nothing.

He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He began talking to himself in his head—not with words, but with a quiet inner voice that sounded too calm for his age. He imagined things. A version of himself who was good enough. A version of his father who smiled when he walked into the room. A home where marks were not the measure of love. He knew these were lies. But they were kind lies. Lies that held him through sleepless nights and silenced mornings.

Sometimes, when no one was home, Aarav would take out his sketchbook. It wasn't a real one—just an old school notebook with blank pages at the back. He would draw cities with tall towers, silent boys with wings, fathers with soft eyes and open arms. He never showed anyone. He knew if his father saw it, he'd say, "What's this nonsense? Study something useful."

And so the sketchbook stayed under his mattress, hidden like a wound too tender to touch.

During family gatherings, relatives often praised Veer for his charm and confidence. They'd tousle his hair, laugh at his jokes, tell Raghav, "Your younger one's going to go far." Aarav would stand beside him, polite and smiling, hands clasped behind his back, his voice forgotten in the echo of louder, prouder ones.

Once, an aunt turned to Aarav and said, "You're the quiet one, aren't you?"

He smiled and nodded. She patted his head absently and turned away.

And he realized then that "quiet" was not a compliment. It was an absence.

Over time, Aarav began shrinking himself. Not physically, but emotionally. He stopped laughing loudly. He stopped raising his hand in class. He stopped offering opinions, even when he had them. He stopped asking questions—not just about toys or outings, but about life itself. Why do people love? Why do they hurt each other? Why does trying never seem enough?

Questions that filled his heart but never crossed his lips.

At school, he sat in the back. At home, he stayed in his room. At gatherings, he stood by the window, pretending to be fascinated by the sky. In life, he existed—but barely.

And yet, through all of it, he kept folding paper boats.

Each time it rained, he would find old pages—test papers, tattered booklets, rough notes—and make boats. He would watch them float for a moment before sinking or drifting away. He never tried to rescue them. He never ran after them like other children. He just watched.

And perhaps, somewhere inside, he believed that if he folded enough boats, one of them might carry his voice away—carry the version of him he couldn't be, to a place where he was enough.

But for now, he folded.

Folded his dreams, his pain, his hopes—into small shapes that the world would never notice.

And let them go.