Chapter 1: The Loneliest Room

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan, its blades casting uneven shadows across the dimly lit walls. The space, though small, felt vast—emptied of warmth, laughter, and life. To Aashiq, it wasn’t just a room; it was his entire world.

From a young age, Aashiq learned that silence was safer than rebellion. His parents, though well-meaning, had always believed in discipline above all else. “Your future depends on how hard you work now,” his father would say, pacing the narrow living room with furrowed brows. “Fun and games are distractions, Aashiq. Don’t waste time.”

At first, Aashiq tried to follow their rules. He sat at his desk, pencil in hand, staring at his schoolbooks for hours. But the words on the page blurred together, their meaning lost in the suffocating stillness of the room. Outside, the sound of boys laughing and playing cricket in the sun drifted through the window. He longed to join them, to feel the grass under his feet, the thrill of chasing a ball.

But his parents’ rules were clear: no playing, no friends, no distractions.

Instead, he found solace in drawing. In the quiet of his room, he sketched the world he wished he could be a part of—fields of grass, children playing, bright skies filled with birds. His pencil moved with a quiet determination, bringing life to the emptiness around him.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

One day, he drew a butterfly he had seen outside his window, its wings spread wide as it perched on a flower. He spent hours perfecting its delicate details, from the curve of its wings to the intricate patterns etched across them.

When his father saw the drawing, he frowned. “Why are you wasting time on this nonsense?” he asked, snatching the paper from Aashiq’s hands. “You should be studying! How will you ever amount to anything if you spend your days scribbling?”

Aashiq said nothing, his gaze fixed on the crumpled paper in his father’s hand. That night, he didn’t pick up his pencil again.

The days turned into weeks, then months. Aashiq’s life fell into a monotonous routine—wake up, study, eat, repeat. His room became both his refuge and his prison, a place where time stood still.

The village around him was alive with activity. He could hear the distant chatter of neighbors, the laughter of children, and the occasional bark of a stray dog. But for Aashiq, all of it felt like it belonged to another world, a world he wasn’t allowed to enter.

Sometimes, late at night, he would sit by the window and watch the stars. The sky, vast and unchanging, seemed to mirror his own feelings of isolation. He wondered if anyone else felt as lonely as he did.

He tried to tell himself that he didn’t need friends, that he didn’t need to laugh or play like the other children. But deep down, he knew he was lying to himself. The weight of his loneliness pressed down on him, growing heavier with each passing day.

Once, when his mother came into his room to check on him, she noticed the dust gathering on his desk. “You haven’t drawn anything in a while,” she remarked, her tone softer than usual.

Aashiq shrugged. “What’s the point?” he replied. “It doesn’t matter.”

His mother sighed but said nothing more. She didn’t understand, and Aashiq didn’t expect her to.

And so, the days continued. Aashiq sat in his room, watching the world pass him by. His drawings remained untouched, his dreams buried beneath the weight of expectations he couldn’t escape.

The loneliest room wasn’t just the four walls that surrounded him. It was the space inside his heart, where hope had withered and joy had faded.

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