Everyone's eyes slowly turned toward Akruti.

She had been quietly tracing the edge of her chit with her thumb, avoiding every curious glance.

"You don't have to answer," Mrs. Sharma reminded her gently.

Akruti nodded, then unfolded the paper.

"When was the last time someone truly understood you?"

She looked at the sketchbook resting on her lap.

"I don't think anyone ever has."

The room fell silent.

"I've always found it easier to draw than to talk. Whenever I'm happy, I draw. Whenever I'm upset, I draw. People say I'm quiet because I'm shy."

She smiled faintly.

"I'm not shy."

"I just never know if anyone would understand the words."

She slowly opened her sketchbook.

Instead of landscapes or buildings, every page held drawings of people—laughing, crying, sitting alone, staring out of windows.

None of them had faces.

"I don't draw faces," she whispered.

"Because emotions are easier to understand than expressions."

No one spoke.

For the first time, everyone realized that Akruti hadn't been silent because she had nothing to say.

She had simply been speaking in a language no one had taken the time to learn.