My name is Aryan. I am ten years old. I love dogs, picture books, soft toys, and the smell of crayons. I go to school like every other child. But I am not like every other child.

I am autistic. I don’t speak with my mouth like others do. I speak with my heart, my eyes, my hands, and sometimes a device with keys. I am non-verbal. But that doesn’t mean I have no voice.

Sometimes I wonder if people listened with kindness instead of just ears, would they hear me better?

My mom tells me this all the time. She reads my face like a book. When I blink twice, she knows I’m anxious. When I tap my fingers on my lap, she knows I’m excited. When I press my palms tightly against my ears, she knows the world has gotten too loud again.

She always says, “Aryan, you don’t have to shout to be heard.”

But in school, it’s different.

Every day, I wear my favourite blue hoodie. Not because I’m trying to look cool, but because the world hurts my skin, my ears, and my head. The lights flicker like lightning. The bell rings like a fire alarm. The voices, footsteps, chalk screeches… it’s like a thousand drums in my head. I pull my hood tight, hoping it’ll block the noise.

Most kids don’t understand why I flap my hands or rock when I sit. They whisper.

“Why is he always so weird?”

“Can’t he just talk?”

“Is he dumb or something?”

One boy once grabbed my writing board and said, “Say something! Come on!” I stared at him, frozen. My hands shook. I wanted to say, “Please stop.” But I couldn’t. The words were locked inside me, deep, like treasure hidden in a cave. Only I didn’t have the map to find them.

They don’t see the way I feel every time I’m laughed at. They don’t see how hard I try just to stay calm in a noisy classroom. They don’t know that I cry at night, asking my pillow why I was made this way.

I once read a quote in the library by Dr. Stephen Shore. It said:

“If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.”

That hit me hard. Because even among autistic kids, we are all different. But the world tries to put us in one small box. Especially those of us who don’t speak.

Not everyone is unkind. There’s Miss Lata, our school librarian. She always smiles at me like I matter. She never talks too fast. She lets me type slowly and gives me books with big pictures and fewer words. She once said, “Books are the voices of the quiet.” That day, I hugged the book she gave me, “The Little Prince.” I didn’t understand all the words, but I understood the feeling.

And there’s my little sister, Isha. She is only five, but she’s the best translator of my feelings. She holds my hand when I’m scared. She sings silly songs when I cry. She doesn’t ask why I don’t talk. She just talks to me anyway.

One time she told her friend, “My bhaiya doesn’t speak, but he loves me so much.” I hugged her tight. That was the first time someone spoke for me, not about me.

Temple Grandin, a scientist who also has autism, once said:

“I am different, not less.”

I want everyone at school to remember this. Just because I don’t raise my hand in class or shout out answers doesn’t mean I don’t know them. I do math in my head. I notice tiny things no one else does like how the class plant drooped on Monday or how the ceiling fan wobbles a little faster every week. I have ideas, dreams, and jokes too. But they live quietly inside me.

My biggest dream? To be a storyteller. Yes — a boy who doesn’t speak wants to tell stories. Funny, right?

But you’re reading my words now, aren’t you? So maybe I already am one.

If I could stand in front of my class and give one speech, I would say:

• Don’t make me stand when I’m overwhelmed. Give me a quiet space instead.
• Don’t judge me for stimming — that’s just how I stay calm.
• Give me time. I will answer, just not always with words.
• Pair me with someone kind, not someone impatient.
• Ask me what I’m good at — not what’s wrong with me.

And please, please teach other kids to be kind to children who are different. Because sometimes, the silence in a classroom hurts more than the noise.

One day, the bell rang early, the teacher shouted at another student, and someone dropped a steel water bottle that clanged like an explosion. That was too much. I covered my ears and began to cry. I fell to the floor and rocked. My body had no control. It wasn’t a tantrum. It was my brain shouting, “I can’t take this anymore!”

Everyone stared. No one helped.

Later, my mom told my teacher, “He’s not trying to misbehave. He’s trying to survive.”

Some people call me “special.” Some say I’m a “challenge.” But I think I’m just Aryan. I live in a different kind of world, one where colours are brighter, sounds are sharper, and feelings are deeper.

That can be hard sometimes.

But it also means I notice things no one else sees. I see how one girl in my class taps her pencil when she’s scared. I see how the cleaner uncle’s eyes look tired when no one thanks him. I once made a card for him. I didn’t write words. I drew a big heart and a broom with stars around it. He smiled for the first time.

Maybe my silence helps me hear the things others miss.

What if schools had quiet zones for kids who need breaks? What if every class had a lesson on empathy on how to include kids who are different? What if teachers read stories about non-verbal kids and made others understand that we are not invisible?

What if, just what if, the world stopped asking, “Why don’t you talk?”

And started asking, “What do you want to say?”

I may not say much with my mouth. But I have a story to tell, a real, beating, human story.

If you’re a child reading this, I hope you remember: Kindness is a language everyone understands even those who don’t speak.

If you’re a teacher, I hope you give kids like me a chance to shine in their own way.

And if you’re another non-verbal child reading this somehow, I want you to know: You’re not alone. You are seen. You are important.

Just like me.

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