In the warmth of her cozy kitchen, Kiara Advani, a striking figure with raven-black hair, was lost in the rhythm of cooking, her movements almost a dance. The aroma of spices mingled with the anticipation in the air. Her phone, perched on the counter, played the role of a modern-day tin can telephone, connecting her to her mother through the magic of technology. The speakerphone filled the room with her mother's voice, a comforting melody amidst the sizzle and chop.

"Maa," Kiara's voice was a blend of excitement and nerves, "meri course ab khatam hogayi. Mujhe ICT par psychologist ki kaam ki opportunity hai. So, main kal aajaungi aur interview ke liye jaungi." Her words tumbled out in a rush, the culmination of years of hard work now a tangible reality. (Translation: Mom, my course is now over. I have got an oppurtunity to work with the ICT. So, I will come tomorrow and go for the interview.)

Her mother's response crackled through, "Theek hai, Kiara. Kitni baje ki flight hai?" There was a note of pride in her query, mixed with the maternal concern that never wanes. (Translation: Okay Kiara. What is is your flight?)

"Aaj raat 2 baje," Kiara replied, her heart skipping a beat at the thought. "Abhi nikal rahi hoon." She could almost feel her mother's smile through the phone, a silent exchange of love and luck. (Translation: Tonight 2am. I am leaving now.)

The call ended with a soft click, and Kiara moved through her apartment with purpose. She packed her suitcase with the precision of a seasoned traveler, her clothes folded into neat squares that told stories of her journey so far. The sandwiches she had prepared earlier were tucked into her bag, a small comfort for the road ahead.

Kiara Advani wasn't just any girl; she was a newly-minted psychologist, her name now carrying the weight of her achievements. The BCCI had extended an invitation that could change her life: to become the psychologist for the Men's Indian Cricket Team. It was an honor, a challenge, and a dream all rolled into one.

At the airport, the buzz of travelers and the clatter of wheels on tile were the backdrop to her thoughts. She checked in, her mind replaying the possibilities of tomorrow. "I will meet Virat Kohli if I get selected in the interview," she whispered to herself, a mantra for the future.

Settled in her seat, the hum of the aircraft's engines a steady lullaby, Kiara slipped on her headphones. Music flooded her senses, a mix of melodies and memories, each note a step towards her new beginning. As the plane climbed, her eyelids grew heavy, and the world faded to the soft darkness of dreams.

                                                             ✨✨✨

The JW Marriott in Mumbai was a hive of activity, the air charged with the electric buzz of anticipation. In the midst of this chaos, Rohit Sharma, the esteemed captain, cast a searching glance around the room. "Where is Shub?" he inquired, his voice cutting through the din.

Ishan Kishan, the wicketkeeper and the heart of the team's camaraderie, let out a weary sigh. "He's working out, bhai," he responded, the concern evident in his tone.

Time passed, marked by the comings and goings of hotel staff and the muted conversations of players, until a figure emerged, commanding the space with his presence. Shubman Gill, with his jet-black hair and chiseled features, took his place beside Ishan. Virat Kohli, ever the observant one, questioned, "Shubman, where were you?"

"Gym," came the succinct reply, as Shubman reached for the assortment of fruits and fresh juice laid out before him, his dinner a silent testament to his disciplined life.

Shubman Gill was more than just a handsome face; he was the embodiment of cheer and charm, a man who once wore his heart on his sleeve. But the betrayal by Ananya Singhaniya, his ex-girlfriend, had left a shadow over his spirit. Their four-year romance had been the talk of the town, a love story that many had envied. Shubman's devotion to her was profound, but it all crumbled when he discovered her true intentions: to leverage his fame and fortune for her modeling career.

The confrontation that followed was as intense as it was heartbreaking. Shubman's parents, who had harbored doubts about Ananya from the start, felt their worst fears confirmed. Lakwinder, Shubman's father, was incensed. Yet, through Shubman's resilience, the family found its way back to normalcy.

But Shubman had changed. The jovial extrovert had retreated into a shell of introspection, his belief in love shattered. Despite the relentless efforts of his teammates and family, he remained a silent enigma, his words as rare as rain in a drought.

Shubman rose to leave. Virat's voice, tinged with empathy, halted him. "Shub, it's been a year. Please, step out of that zone. I understand the pain."

Shubman offered no reply, only a quiet "Goodnight, everyone," before departing. Virat watched him go, a silent prayer in his heart.

Ishan, driven by concern, followed Shubman to his room. He found him lying there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, lost in thought. "Veere, tomorrow Aditi is coming. Can we three go out?" Ishan ventured, hope flickering in his voice.

"No," was the flat response. Ishan prodded, "Why?"

Shubman's voice was a whisper in the dark. "I don't want to third wheel your date." With that, he turned away, the click of the light switch plunging the room into darkness. The blanket rose and fell with his steady breathing, a silent barrier against the world outside.

Ishan retreated to the solitude of his room, the weight of concern for his friend heavy on his shoulders. He dialed Aditi's number, and she answered almost immediately, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. "Hi baby, how is Shub?" she inquired, her words laced with worry.

"He's the same, baby," Ishan replied, the frustration evident in his voice. "He doesn't want to join us tomorrow." There was a pause, a silent exchange of mutual concern.

Aditi's suggestion came tentatively, "I guess we need to look for a therapist." Her voice was hesitant, unsure if her words would comfort or provoke.

Ishan was quick to dismiss the idea, "No, there's no need for a therapist. He's not slipped into depression. I have faith that someone will come along to bring back the Shubman we know." His tone was one of conviction, a testament to the bond of friendship.

"Who, and when?" Aditi's question hung in the air, tinged with skepticism. "You speak as if she'll arrive from another state tomorrow."

"Maybe she is on the way, Aditi," Ishan said, a mysterious edge to his words. Aditi's laughter rang out, light and teasing. "You always speak in riddles, Ishu."

Ishan's voice softened, "Let's give it one more month, and if there's no change, we'll consider a therapist." It was a compromise, a promise to take action if hope faltered.

"Okay, bye. Goodnight," Aditi's voice was gentle, a whisper across the miles. "Goodnight, baby," Ishan echoed, his heart aching for his friend. With a heavy sigh, he reached for the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. In the quiet of the night, he surrendered to sleep, his thoughts a tangled web of hope and worry.