The school bell didn't ring - it screamed.

And every day, it startled him like the first time.

He'd flinch, clutch his notebook just a little tighter, and pretend he didn't notice the world noticing him.

Classroom desks weren't wooden to him - they were battlegrounds.

Every time the teacher said, "Let's hear from someone new today," his throat turned into stone. He'd look down, willing invisibility to be real.

There was once a time he raised his hand without thinking.

Now, he only raised questions in his head.

"What if I sound stupid?" "What if they laugh?" "What if? what if I don't even know what I think?"

His thoughts never stopped - they just never stepped outside.

At Home:

His parents said he was "just quiet now."

His old photos were still up - the smiling boy with messy hair and grass-stained knees. That boy felt like a stranger in skin that still fit.

They didn't ask what happened.

He wouldn't have known what to say anyway.

But in his dreams, he was still loud.

He dreamed of magical forests and secret agents. Of roaring applause and skies that answered back. He met talking wolves, danced with the wind, and argued with clouds. And in that world, he never second-guessed a thing.

In dreams, he didn't whisper.

He sang.

Real Life vs Dream Life

Every morning he woke up more tired, more alive.

Reality was grayscale.

His dreams were high-definition.

But something was changing - slowly.

He started writing his dreams down. First in scribbles, then in stories.

He didn't show anyone. Not yet. But he started to smile when he wrote. A private smile, like he was holding onto something no one else could steal.

And that was a start.