Over the months, Aarib existed in the quietest way possible. He answered questions only when teachers picked on him. He scored average in tests—never topping, never failing. During lunch, he ate by himself. Chapatis and leftover sabzi in a steel tiffin, always packed the same way, neatly wrapped with a napkin. His handwriting was neat, his bag always zipped, and his head always down.
He didn't play football. He didn't crack jokes. He didn't fight, or flirt, or draw cartoons in the back of his notebook like most of us did.
He was just... there.
The kind of guy you'd forget to count during attendance.
There was one day I caught him sketching in his notebook—some kind of scene from a street market, shaded in pencil with crazy detail. It looked professional, like something out of a comic book. I leaned over to say something, but before I could even comment, he shut the book and slipped it back into his bag like it was something shameful.
That was Aarib.
Quiet. Skinny. Kind of weird.