Is Silence the Biggest Scream?
The Room Where He Stays Quiet
It’s raining again.
Arijit sits at his desk, head bowed, in a dimly lit room. His “April Plan” board stares back at him — filled with red crosses and unfinished goals. Raindrops race each other down the glass window beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry.
There’s a silence in the room that feels heavier than sound.
“Silence is the biggest scream.”
The Flashback No One Else Remembers
The clatter of dishes. The sting of blame.
His mother cooks in the background, back turned. His father sips tea behind a newspaper at the dining table. Neither looks at Arijit — the boy at the sink, scrubbing plates as though they’re made of shame.
A sharp edge slices his finger. Red mixes with water. No one notices.
“They didn’t hit me with fists. They hit me with disappointment.”
The Interview That Was Already Decided
A room. A resume. A verdict.
Arijit sits across from a corporate manager. He’s dressed in clean clothes. He’s memorized every answer. But his voice shakes.
“We’re looking for someone more confident. You seem… withdrawn.”
Outside, it rains harder.
He walks home in silence, the rejection letter slowly turning to pulp in his pocket.
The Mirror Doesn’t Lie
His room glows orange from the sunset. Warm light. Cold breath.
He stares into the mirror. Tries a smile. Fails. The notebook on his desk waits. It knows the truth.
“I tried. I really did. But maybe the world doesn’t have space for someone like me.”
He folds the page gently and hides it under his pillow. Like a secret. Like a goodbye.
The Silence They Don’t Understand
Morning.
White sheets. Police tape. Whispers.
His mother says, “He always had some mental problem.”
His father mutters, “Coward.”
The notebook lies on the floor, unnoticed. No one picks it up.
“Even in death… they still don’t hear me.”
The 13th Day Gathering
There’s food. Laughter. Phone screens. Guests.
“Such a weak generation,” says his uncle.
Nobody cries. Nobody asks why.
In a quiet corner, his photo is framed in marigolds — the eyes already fading.
The One Who Noticed
On the rooftop, a teenage girl sketches. Quiet, like him.
She opens her notebook — a drawing of Arijit by the window, head bowed.
“He told me he loved sunsets. I wish I had told him I saw him too.”
She holds the sketch to her chest. Down below, the world forgets.
The Final Words
Black screen. Text fades in.
“Some disappear quietly.
Check in on those who go silent.”
And then:
Is silence the biggest scream?