The Writer No One Noticed The Writer No One Noticed

The Writer No One Noticed

Nepal Police School – Grade 10, Classroom B

Lunch bell: 12:45 PM

The bell rang, and chaos immediately followed. Students exploded from their seats like bullets from a chamber. Some ran toward the cafeteria. Others clumped together near windows, discussing the latest school gossip or their crushes from the senior batch.

Seyon Ilkar did none of that.

Sitting by the open window on the farthest corner of the classroom, he remained still. His desk was scratched and uneven—his personal territory in a world that ignored him.

He was used to silence.

In fact, he preferred it.

> “Why is it so easy to disappear in a crowd?”

“Why does the world treat quiet like a disease?”

“Maybe I’m not lonely. Maybe I’m just... alive in a dead place.”

Seyon’s hand moved smoothly across the page. He wasn’t writing notes or doing homework. His notebook was different—rough, overused, and filled with his own private world.

He titled the page:

The Plastic Generation

His pen danced:

> “They wear smiles like makeup.

Their words smell like perfume.

Their friendships are made of plastic—

And I’m the only real thing in this room.”

Seyon didn’t write for approval.

He wrote to survive.

The students of Nepal Police School didn’t know who he really was. To them, he was just the strange kid who never ate lunch and always sat alone. But online, he had another name—Midnight_Morrow, a mysterious and poetic writer whose words broke hearts and trended across anonymous forums.

Thousands read him.

None of them knew he was just a sixteen-year-old boy from a dorm room in Dharan.

---

Seyon left his desk for a moment—to wash his face, maybe reset his thoughts.

When he returned...

The page was gone.

He froze.

His desk was empty.

His heart began to race.

---

✦ 5th Period: English Literature

Their teacher, Sir Kleran Bhash, marched in with his usual sharp footsteps. He wasn’t holding any books.

Just one folded piece of paper.

The moment Seyon saw it, his stomach dropped.

“Class,” Sir Kleran began. “This was found in your classroom. Let’s hear what kind of... creativity is being shared here.”

And he read aloud:

> “They wear smiles like makeup.

Their words smell like perfume.

Their friendships are made of plastic—

And I’m the only real thing in this room.”

The classroom fell into a stunned silence.

Then the whispering began.

“…That’s deep.”

“…Weird.”

“…Who even wrote that?”

One student smirked and shouted, “Sir! Ilkar did. He’s always writing freaky stuff!”

All eyes turned to Seyon.

It was the first time most of them had ever looked directly at him.

Sir Kleran frowned. “Ilkar. Is this your writing?”

Seyon nodded once.

No shame. Just quiet acceptance.

The teacher walked slowly to his desk.

“You think you’re above your classmates? Above this school?” His voice was sharp. “This is not literature. This is dangerous self-pity. Come to the staff room after class.”

He left the paper on the teacher’s table.

The class laughed.

Someone whispered, “Psycho.”

Seyon stared at the blackboard.

> “So this is what it feels like to be noticed.”

> “Not as a friend. Not as a person.”

“Just as a problem.”

---

That night, back in his dorm bed, Seyon logged in to his anonymous writing account.

He typed:

> Entry 109 – Midnight_Morrow

“They took my voice and turned it into a warning.