Devendra stopped being treated like a child.
Not because he grew up.
But because adults no longer knew what to do with him.
The school called his mother again.
This time, they didn't sound worried.
They sounded careful.
"He doesn't disrupt class intentionally," one teacher said.
"But sometimes he just… disconnects."
"Stares at nothing."
"Whispers back at the air."
Devendra sat in the chair between them, his feet not touching the floor.
He heard her laughing.
They think I'm not here, the voice said.
Tell them what you hear. Go on.
He didn't speak.
Doctors came next.
Questions without meaning. Tests without answers.
"Does he understand where he is?"
"Yes."
"Does he know who you are?"
"Yes."
"Does he respond to stimuli?"
"Yes."
Everything looked normal.
That was the worst part.
At night, Devendra learned something terrifying:
Sleep wasn't the only door.
Sometimes, when the world became too loud,
when his chest tightened and his thoughts blurred,
he tried to pull himself away — to leave everything behind.
To disappear from the moment.
Every time he did—
She stopped him.
Not with force.
With certainty.
No, she said.
You don't get to leave yet.
He would feel the world pause.
His body frozen between waking and dreaming.
Neither asleep. Nor free.
If you vanish, she whispered,
I lose you. And I don't lose things.
Morning always came.
Devendra always woke up.
His mother watched him closely now.
Too closely.
"Are you hearing something again?" she asked gently.
He nodded once.
She looked away.
That hurt more than her disbelief.
At school, kids stopped sitting near him.
Teachers spoke slowly, like he might break.
And the voice?
Never soft.
Never kind.
Look at them, she mocked.
They're already leaving you.
Devendra learned something new that day:
Being awake didn't mean being safe.
It just meant being alone.
And somewhere between the ringing bell and the empty hallway,
he realized the most terrifying truth so far—
She didn't need the dream anymore.