The Weight of Numbers

By Bhoomika S N

They told us success lives inside percentages,

that dreams must fit a marking scheme.

He learned to measure worth in red ink,

while joy became a chapter he never got to read.

The ceiling fan spins like time itself,

each turn a whisper he’s learned to ignore.

His tears fall between math problems,

as if solving for x could solve what’s wrong.

His phone glows with everyone’s victories,

while his mother prays through the walls.

He mutters, “Maybe zero counts too,”

and for once, the silence doesn’t hurt.

Morning finds him at the same old desk,

but something softer lives in his chest.

He writes, “I’m not my marks. I’m still here.”

And that - that’s his first real answer.

By Bhoomika S N