The Boy the World Forgot

He came into the world without a sound. No hands reached out to hold his fragile head. The nurse just wrote his name and walked away- A child born to silence, not to songs. His mother stared through windows into rain. His father left before he knew his name. He learned that asking meant you’d not be heard. He learned that love was something shown on screens. At school, he spoke too soft, or not at all. They mocked his eyes, too wide to hide the ache. He sat alone and watched the sky turn gray. The lunchroom felt like planets far from his. He didn’t cry. Not once. He held it in. Instead, he drew in margins of old books- Worlds made of stars and fathers made of light. He smiled at things no other soul could see. A girl once looked at him and did not smile. He said “hello” and folded back inside. They called him ghost, as if he chose that word- Not knowing ghosts are made, not born alone. At fifteen, snow became his only friend. He walked into the woods and did not turn. The cold said, “Yes, I see you. Rest awhile.” But he returned, because the snow let go. He worked at twenty in fluorescent haze- A scanner, beep, a nod, then quiet hands. The shelves knew more of him than anyone. His name became a password. Nothing more. He tried again, with pills and ink-stained notes. But still he woke. And still the world forgot. He told the mirror, “Please, just speak to me.” The mirror held its silence like a judge. At thirty, found alone inside his room- No violence, just the weight of years not lived. No headline ran. No mourner lit a flame. Just forms, a bag, a box, and then a tag. They threw away his notebooks, never read. A thousand pages filled with silent screams. The world moved on. The sky remained unchanged. And no one said his name, not once, again. But now- You’ve heard it. You have felt him in your chest. The quiet grief of all the lost, unheard. The echo of a boy the world forgot.