The batting cage didn't look different.
Same green nets.
Same faded red lines.
Same machine with its lazy mechanical hum.
But something had changed.
Him.
Aarav stood just outside Cage 4, fingers curled around the bat.
Not gloved.
Not taped.
Just skin against wood.
He hadn't brought the bat for nostalgia this time.
He brought it because his hands needed to remember weight.
He looked around.
No one was watching.
Not Hana.
Not the kids.
Not his uncle.
The wind was still.
The lights were dull.
The world didn't ask for performance today.
Perfect.
He stepped in.
The mat under his shoes had a familiar give.
He exhaled.
Inserted a coin.
The machine clicked to life.
He raised the bat — not to intimidate.
Just to breathe through the grip.
Ball one.
He didn't swing.
Just watched it fly past.
Clean. Controlled.
Missed on purpose.
Ball two.
He stepped into position.
Bent knees.
Weight forward.
Swung.
Missed.
The air whistled past the blade.
No contact.
No noise except the thump of the ball in the net behind.
He blinked.
And realized — it didn't hurt.
Not like before.
Ball three.
He swung late.
Clipped the ball.
It rolled sideways.
He didn't care.
He didn't expect perfection.
He just… moved.
Again.
And again.
Each ball like a breath exhaled.
Each swing peeling something off his chest.
By the tenth ball, his forearms burned.
His back ached slightly.
But he smiled.
Not because he hit anything worth clapping for.
But because the silence didn't judge him anymore.
He stepped out of the cage.
Sat on the bench.
Placed the bat across his lap.
It was sweaty now.
So was he.
He wiped his brow with his sleeve.
Breathed.
Someone clapped.
He turned.
Hana.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just a single, thoughtful clap.
"Finally," she said.
He shrugged, breathless.
"Wasn't trying to impress."
"Good."
She walked over.
Sat beside him.
"Felt different?"
He nodded.
"I missed," he said.
She grinned.
"Obviously."
He grinned back.
"But I didn't break."
She handed him a can of lemon soda.
He cracked it open.
Took a sip.
Cold. Tart. Perfect.
"You looked calm in there," she said.
He tilted his head.
"I felt… awake."
They sat together in the late afternoon light.
No pressure.
No performance.
Just two kids with their own bruises,
sharing the quiet between swings.
Later, at home, he placed the bat on the table.
Unwrapped the towel fully.
Hung the jersey behind the door.
No longer hiding.
No longer display.
Just… belonging.
He wrote again that night.
I swung today.
I missed.
I lived.
No applause came.
But his chest no longer needed it.