CHAPTER 3 – A SKETCH OF PAIN
1252 Words
That night, Aisha sat on her bed with her homework open in front of her, but her mind wasn’t anywhere near the textbook. Her thoughts kept circling the same image:
that drowning girl in Kamal’s sketchbook.
Her room was dim, the single bulb flickering like it wanted to give up. The sound of her father’s footsteps dragged across the corridor, slow and uneven — another day, another drink. She held her breath until his door closed.
Silence.
The type of silence that could swallow someone whole.
She exhaled shakily and turned her notebook around, trying to focus on anything except the heaviness sitting on her chest.
But her brain had other plans.
What kind of boy draws something like that?
What’s he running from?
What happened to him?
Her eyes drifted to her window.
The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and the street outside looked washed-out and lonely. She leaned against the wall and hugged her knees.
She wasn’t used to caring about people.
She wasn’t used to letting her mind wander into someone else’s pain.
But Kamal…
Kamal was different.
There was something raw in his eyes.
Something familiar.
Something she thought only she carried.
After a while, she gave up pretending she could study. She slipped her journal out from under her pillow — the one where she wrote the things she couldn’t tell anyone. The cover was worn from years of holding secrets, its pages filled with shaky handwriting and half-erased sentences.
She opened a fresh page and wrote:
“Today I met someone who looks like he’s drowning too.”
She paused.
The words felt like a confession.
Her pen moved again, slower this time.
“I don’t want him to sink.”
She stopped herself from thinking more than that.
Feelings were dangerous.
Attaching herself to someone was dangerous.
Especially someone who was already standing on the edge of something dark.
She shut the journal quickly, as if the words could betray her if she stared at them for too long.
She lay down and closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily.
Her mind replayed the small things — the tremor in Kamal’s voice, the way he held that sketchbook, how he flinched when the boys called him earlier.
People didn’t flinch like that for no reason.
People didn’t shrink into themselves unless they were taught to.
But she didn’t want to assume the worst.
She didn’t want to imagine horrors she wasn’t sure existed yet.
Still… her heart whispered what her mind tried to avoid.
Something is wrong with him.
Very, very wrong.
⸻
The next day, Aisha walked into school earlier than usual.
The halls were quiet, lockers still locked, the air cold and a little dusty. She preferred mornings like this — before the noise, before the gossip, before the chaos.
She sat at her desk and exhaled slowly.
Minutes passed.
Then she heard footsteps approaching.
Slow, hesitant, unsure.
She looked up and saw Kamal standing at the entrance of the classroom.
Her stomach did that quiet flip again.
He stepped inside, scanned the room, and when he saw her, something like relief washed over his face. Not excitement, not happiness — just relief. Like seeing her meant he wasn’t completely alone.
“Morning,” he said, voice low.
“Morning,” she replied, a tiny smile tugging her lips.
He sat beside her, his bag hanging loosely off his shoulder. He looked like he barely slept — eyes swollen, skin pale, movements slow, like his body was tired of carrying whatever fight he fought last night.
Aisha wanted to ask if he was okay.
But questions could be sharp.
Questions could be triggers.
So instead, she said, “You came early.”
He nodded.
“Home was… loud.”
Her stomach tightened.
He didn’t need to explain further.
She understood “loud homes” intimately.
For a moment, they sat in silence.
The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward… more like two wounded souls gently standing beside each other.
Then Kamal placed his sketchbook on the desk.
Aisha’s throat tightened before she even opened it.
“I drew something last night,” he said quietly.
“You can look… if you want.”
If you want.
It was permission.
But it was also fear.
She opened the sketchbook carefully.
The first page wasn’t the drowning girl anymore.
This time, it was a girl standing in the rain…
her back turned…
her shoulders shaking…
while the world around her blurred.
Aisha felt her breath wobble.
The girl looked like her.
Not exactly — but the posture, the loneliness, the atmosphere… it was too familiar.
She flipped the page slowly.
Another drawing.
A cracked door.
Light trying to leak through…
but blocked by something dark.
She flipped again, her heart racing.
A boy sitting on the floor, head between his knees, hands covering his ears.
In the corner — a large, faceless shadow towering over him.
Her pulse quickened.
“Kamal…” she whispered, voice trembling.
“These drawings… they’re—”
“True,” he finished softly.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, she saw the full truth hiding under his calm voice.
This boy had been living in a place where fear had teeth.
Where silence was a shield.
Where art was the only way to scream.
She closed the sketchbook gently, not out of fear, but out of respect.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He blinked.
“For what?”
“For whatever made you draw all that.”
Kamal swallowed hard.
“You don’t have to say sorry, Aisha.”
“I know,” she replied quietly.
“But I feel it.”
The room went quiet again.
Aisha could swear she saw his eyes soften, just a little.
Like someone finally saw the wound beneath the bandage.
He rubbed his thumb along the sketchbook’s spine.
“I didn’t show this to anyone before.”
She breathed out slowly.
“Why me?”
His answer came after a long pause.
“Because…”
He inhaled shakily.
“You didn’t look away yesterday.”
Aisha felt her entire chest warm.
She wanted to protect him.
Not because he was fragile, but because he had carried too much alone.
Before she could speak again, a loud laugh echoed from the hallway — the boys were coming.
Kamal’s entire body tensed in an instant.
Shoulders stiff.
Breath paused.
Jaw locked.
Fear.
Instant.
Automatic.
Aisha noticed.
She didn’t say anything.
She just placed her hand lightly on the side of his desk — close enough for him to see, far enough to not scare him.
A silent message:
You’re not alone.
Not right now.
Not here.
When the boys walked in, he stayed still but didn’t flinch as hard as yesterday.
Maybe her presence made a difference.
Maybe it didn’t.
But Kamal glanced at her once — just once — and in that glance was something fragile and heartbreaking.
Trust.
The beginning of it.
After the boys settled down, he whispered so only she could hear:
“Thank you… for seeing me.”
She didn’t reply.
Her throat was too tight.
But she knew this moment would become the turning point — the one that started something neither of them could undo.
Because for the first time in a long time…
Kamal wasn’t hiding alone.
And Aisha wasn’t feeling alone.
And the storm around them was only just beginning.
- Writer
