"ऐसा क्यूँ होता है
तेरे जाने के बाद
लगता है हाँथों में
रह गए तेरे हाथ"

Aarohi’s fingers lingered over the chair’s cold metal armrest, her gaze heavy on Shubman’s still form. Her breath hitched every few moments, a silent rhythm of the storm brewing within her. The pale light from the bedside lamp highlighted the sharp planes of his face, now dulled by exhaustion and fever. This wasn’t the Shubman she remembered—the one with a lopsided grin and sparkling eyes that always seemed to hold the world in their light.

This was someone weighed down, hollowed out by time and something more intangible.

Taking a tentative step forward, she let her eyes roam over him. His face was pale, lips slightly chapped, dark circles etched under his closed eyes. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, but it wasn’t the composed, confident Shubman she had known. This was someone who had pushed himself too far, and the sight of him like this made something inside her ache.

She blinked back tears that threatened to spill, biting her lip to keep her emotions at bay. The years hadn’t dulled the memories or the feelings, no matter how hard she had tried. Seeing him now, lying there so still, brought it all rushing back—the laughter, the fights, the way he had once been her whole world.

After what felt like an eternity, she stepped closer, her movements hesitant as if afraid to disturb him. Her hand hovered over his head, trembling slightly. She hesitated, pulling back for a moment, but then, as if compelled by something stronger than herself, she reached out and gently placed her hand on his forehead.

He was burning up.

Her lips parted in a silent gasp, and she quickly withdrew her hand, staring at him as if the heat of his fever had left an imprint on her skin. For a moment, she stood there, unsure of what to do, the weight of the years pressing down on her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft creak of the door. Abhishek walked in, his shoulders slumped slightly, a weariness in his stride that wasn’t there before. When he saw her sitting there, he stopped briefly, offering her a faint, apologetic smile.

“How long has he been like this?” Aarohi asked quietly, not looking away from Shubman. Her voice felt foreign to her ears—soft, strained, fragile.

Abhishek sighed, stepping closer. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Too long,” he said simply, the words heavy with unspoken emotions.

She looked at him then, her brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “It didn’t happen all at once. It’s like…he started slipping piece by piece. At first, it was subtle. He’d zone out in the middle of conversations, brush off celebrations like they didn’t matter. We thought he was just focused, you know? On cricket, on his career. But then it got worse.”

Aarohi’s grip tightened on the armrest, her knuckles whitening. “Worse how?”

Abhishek took a deep breath, his gaze flicking to Shubman before returning to her. “He stopped eating properly. Training became an obsession—not just to improve but to escape. He started isolating himself. Even after hitting milestones most players only dream of, he wouldn’t celebrate. He’d just sit there, staring at his phone or out the window, lost in his thoughts.”

Her chest tightened, her heart pounding in her ears. “Why didn’t anyone do something?”

“We tried,” Abhishek said, his voice tinged with frustration, though not directed at her. “But he’s stubborn, Aarohi. You know that. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, wouldn’t let anyone in. The only time we saw a flicker of the old Shubman was when he’d achieve something big. And even then…”

He trailed off, shaking his head. Aarohi leaned forward slightly, her voice trembling. “Even then, what?”

Abhishek hesitated, then met her eyes. “Even then, he’d just smile and say, ‘Aarohi would be proud, no?’ That's it.”

The air seemed to leave the room, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. Aarohi’s throat tightened, her hands trembling as she clenched them in her lap.

“He said that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Abhishek nodded. “Every single time. It became a ritual for him, I think. Like saying it out loud made it real, even if you weren’t there to hear it.”

She looked away, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. Her mind raced, memories flooding back—Shubman’s laughter, his relentless optimism, the way he used to look at her like she was the center of his universe. And now, to hear that she had still been a part of his world, even after all these years…

“Why didn’t he call?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “Why didn’t he…reach out?”

Abhishek sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I think he wanted to. But maybe there’s a part of him that’s scared. Of rejection, maybe? Of opening old wounds? I don’t know. What I do know is that he’s been punishing himself for that fight every single day.”

Aarohi shook her head, tears spilling over now despite her best efforts. “That’s not fair,” she murmured. “He shouldn’t have had to carry that alone.”

Abhishek’s expression softened. “Maybe not. But that’s Shubman, isn’t it? He’d rather suffer in silence than burden anyone else. Especially you.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. When she opened them again, they were fixed on Shubman, his face pale and still against the hospital pillow.

“What else?” she asked after a moment.

Abhishek hesitated, as if debating whether to say more. Finally, he sighed. “He’s been pushing himself to the brink, Aarohi. Skipping meals, barely sleeping. He’s like a machine, running on fumes and sheer determination. But it’s not just about cricket. It’s like he’s trying to prove something—to himself, to you, to the world. And in the process, he’s losing himself. This guy is going crazy, Aarohi.”

Aarohi’s heart ached at the image his words painted. She reached out, her hand hovering over Shubman’s once more before she gently placed it on top of his.

“He doesn’t deserve this,” she said softly, more to herself than to Abhishek.

“No, he doesn’t,” Abhishek agreed. “But the only person who can pull him out of it is you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “Why me?”

Abhishek smiled faintly. “Because you’re the only one he’s ever truly let in. And whether you realize it or not, you’re still his anchor. You always have been.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Aarohi looked back at Shubman, her fingers tightening around his. She didn’t know how to fix this, didn’t know if she even could. But one thing was certain—she couldn’t walk away. Not again.

As if sensing the gravity of the moment, the room fell silent. And then, there was a faint movement on the bed.

Aarohi and Abhishek both froze, their eyes snapping to Shubman. His fingers twitched beneath hers, his head shifting slightly on the pillow. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send a jolt of hope through her chest.

“He’s waking up,” Abhishek said softly, his voice tinged with relief.

Aarohi leaned forward, her heart pounding as she watched Shubman’s eyelids flutter. The tears she had been holding back threatened to spill once more, but she pushed them down, focusing on him.

For the first time in years, she felt a flicker of something she thought she had lost—a connection, fragile but unbreakable, pulling her back to the boy who had once been her everything.