In the rough edge of an otherwise decent town, there lived a little kid with soft brown curls and a meek, almost apologetic expression. His apartment sat right beside the main street—where the cars never stopped roaring and the people never stopped yelling. The city wasn't far; in fact, its skyline loomed so close it felt like it was watching him.
Every morning, Karu woke up to the same thing: silence. His mother was already gone for work, leaving behind a cold bowl of something that was definitely meant to be warm. He stared at it with a mix of hunger and betrayal.
Karu hated cold food. Absolutely refused it. Even when his stomach twisted and complained, he'd rather go hungry than force down a cold meal.
Which was ridiculous, considering he literally had a microwave sitting right there on the counter—like a smug little box judging his life choices.
But that was Karu. Stubborn in the strangest ways.
Anyways, Karu set off for school — elementary school, judging by his size and the way his backpack nearly broke his back off. He never made any friends, not because he couldn't, but because he convinced himself he didn't need them. Friends just made life complicated, he told himself.
So, he sat alone at his worn, brown desk, the one with a corner that always wobbled when he leaned on it. While the other kids whispered and traded stickers, Karu hunched over a crumpled sheet of paper he'd saved from yesterday. He pretended to copy whatever the teacher was saying, but really, he was drawing.
Karu loved to draw — loved it in that quiet, desperate way kids love things that make them feel safe. Sometimes he imagined becoming an artist one day. But his attention span flickered like a dying lightbulb, and he could never stick to writing or schoolwork long enough for anyone to notice the talent hiding in his margins.
Still, every day, he kept scribbling.
Back home, the apartment was still quiet. His mom wasn't back yet—she never was at this hour—so Karu slipped into his usual routine. He'd sit at the small table by the window and start writing or drawing, losing track of time until the sky outside turned orange. Some days he got so caught up in it that he completely forgot about his homework.
It wasn't until he crawled into bed around 7 PM that he'd remember the list his mom taped to the fridge.
The same old checklist. The same old evening.
On one of the dusty bookshelves sat a figurine—some kind of old artist's model his mom bought years ago. It was still collecting dust, but Karu used it anyway, twisting its stiff limbs into poses so he could practice drawing real body shapes. Next to it was a notebook where he jotted down ideas, half‑finished sketches, and dreams he wasn't brave enough to say out loud.
It wasn't much, but it was his world. And every night, he disappeared into it.