The crowd wasn't loud enough to matter anymore.
Not to him.
Aarav stood on the pitch, his helmet half-raised, sweat sliding down the edge of his face like it was trying to escape.
The bat felt heavier than usual.
The gloves too tight.
Everything wrong.
Forty-seven runs.
He stared at the scoreboard like it had personally betrayed him.
Just three more and they would've celebrated him again.
But the stumps were already broken, scattered behind him like a fallen crown.
And no one clapped.
He didn't raise his bat.
Didn't wave.
Didn't look back.
The stadium hadn't gone silent—
but inside him, it had.
He walked back slowly, dragging his feet not because he was tired—
but because going back meant seeing faces.
The coach, arms folded.
Teammates pretending not to care.
Cameras waiting for a smile that wouldn't come.
But he kept walking.
And at the very top of the stands, in the VIP box, his father stood behind glass—expressionless.
Aarav didn't wave.
In the dressing room, the AC hummed louder than the voices.
Nobody made eye contact.
Someone patted his back—too soft to be sincere.
Someone said "Tough luck" and offered water.
He didn't drink it.
He sat on the bench, helmet still on, gloves still stuck.
He didn't move until the phone call came.
Not to him.
To the coach.
Whispered words.
A stiff glance.
And then the phone was handed to Aarav.
"Take it," the coach said quietly. "You'll want to hear this."
He didn't.
But he took it anyway.
"News broke," his mother's voice said from the other end. "It's everywhere."
She didn't have to say what.
He already knew.
"BREAKING: U-19 Captain's Father Investigated for Corporate Fraud."
"Aarav Kapoor's Career Under Fire Amid Nepotism Allegations."
"Was His Spot Bought?"
He opened his messages.
The first five were from journalists.
The next seven from people he hadn't spoken to in months.
There were already memes.
The hashtags were climbing:
#CancelKapoor
#GoldenBoyFalls
#NepotismCricket
His bat, mid-swing.
Frozen screenshots.
Captions like knives.
He sat there with the gloves still on, as if peeling them off would somehow make it real.
He didn't.
His father didn't call.
Didn't explain.
Didn't deny.
Just silence.
And it was louder than anything else.
The academy dorms asked him to leave.
Politely. Formally. Coldly.
No door slammed.
No press at the gate.
Just a polite letter and a quiet escort out the back.
He stayed at his aunt's house for a week.
Then a hotel.
Then nowhere.
He barely left the room.
He didn't sleep.
He didn't eat properly.
But his phone kept buzzing.
Every notification felt like another stone tied to his chest.
Then came the envelope.
A one-way ticket to Tokyo.
Arranged by his mother.
Her distant cousin had some connection to a small baseball academy there.
They weren't offering a job. Just space.
"You need a clean start," she said.
He didn't want a start at all.
At the airport, he wore his hoodie up.
Sunglasses. Cap. Mask.
No one recognized him.
Not the way they used to.
Three months ago, the staff would've taken selfies.
Now they barely looked twice.
He didn't blame them.
He kept his duffel bag close—
the one with his old bat wrapped in a towel.
His mother had slipped it in last minute.
"You don't have to use it," she'd said.
"Just… don't leave it behind."
The flight was long.
But not long enough to forget anything.
He didn't watch any movies.
Didn't sleep.
He just sat with his forehead against the window, watching the sky disappear into itself.
His reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar.
Older.
Emptier.
Like he'd already left his past behind—
but it had followed him onto the plane.
Tokyo was clean.
Quiet.
Organized in a way Delhi never was.
The cab ride from the airport was silent.
No conversation.
No honking.
The driver didn't ask his name.
Didn't care.
He liked that.
The apartment was on the fourth floor.
One room.
One window.
One futon.
A small kitchen.
It smelled like a new beginning trying too hard to pretend it wasn't lonely.
He dropped the bag at the entrance.
Didn't unpack.
Didn't explore.
Just lay on the futon, eyes open, arms crossed over his chest like something fragile was about to fall apart inside him.
Outside, Tokyo lights blinked steadily.
Like heartbeat monitors.
He didn't close the curtains.
Let the city light fill the room with a dull, unnatural glow.
He didn't sleep.
That night, it rained.
Soft at first.
Then steady.
He stood by the small balcony door, watching the water streak down the glass like it was trying to erase the view.
The bat still lay wrapped in the towel by the corner.
He hadn't touched it.
He didn't want to.
It wasn't just a bat anymore.
It was a burden.
A memory.
A question he didn't want to answer.
Then—
a knock.
Soft.
Then again.
He opened the door slowly, unsure whether to expect a landlord or a ghost.
Instead—
a girl.
Short hair. School uniform. Calm eyes.
She didn't flinch at the sight of him.
Didn't smile either.
She just held out a wrapped bento box.
"My mom made extra," she said in soft English. "You're the new tenant, right?"
He nodded once.
She placed the box gently on the floor, adjusted the wrapping so it wouldn't get wet.
"Don't waste it."
Then turned and left.
Just like that.
No introductions.
No curiosity.
Just food.
He stared at the box for a full minute before picking it up.
It was warm.
He wasn't.
He set it on the table.
Unwrapped it carefully.
Inside: rice, pickled vegetables, a soft piece of tamagoyaki, and—
paneer?
He blinked.
It wasn't Indian-style.
Not spicy.
Not his mother's.
But it smelled close enough to memory that his throat closed.
He didn't eat it.
Not yet.
He sat back on the floor, staring at the bat in the corner and the bento on the table.
His past and his present.
Both wrapped.
Both quiet.
And for the first time in weeks,
he didn't feel angry.
Just…
tired.
He lay back on the futon, arms under his head, watching the ceiling like it might offer answers.
The rain continued.
Soft now.
Gentle.
Forgiving.
He closed his eyes.
Didn't sleep.
Just rested.
And in that stillness, something broke without making a sound.