The bat no longer stayed wrapped.
It leaned by the door now, exposed to the room's pale light, as if testing the air.
Aarav didn't touch it often, but he stopped pretending it didn't exist.
Some mornings, he looked at it longer than others.
Like today.
He had dreamt of Delhi again—
not the scandal.
Not the crowd.
Just a net session.
The way the bat used to sound when middled.
The smell of leather.
That rhythm.
Before it all turned into noise.
He stood by the window, watching light spill across Tokyo's rooftops.
He hadn't spoken a full sentence aloud in days.
Not since… that note.
Missing isn't the opposite of trying. Sometimes it's the result of carrying too much.
Hana's words had followed him like a soft ghost.
It was a Sunday.
He didn't feel like walking far.
Didn't feel like walking at all.
But the silence inside the apartment was too familiar, too full of echoes.
So he walked.
The vending machine by the corner now felt like a checkpoint.
He grabbed the usual — Boss Black Coffee, no sugar.
Across the street, the park bench stood empty.
Until it didn't.
Hana sat there, facing the road, headphones around her neck.
He didn't say hi.
Just walked over, sat beside her.
One space between them.
She didn't turn.
She just pulled out a rice triangle and held it toward him without looking.
He took it.
Small silence passed between bites.
No tension.
No urgency.
Just air. And chewing.
Finally, he asked quietly,
"Why do you bring me food?"
She looked forward.
"My mom makes too much."
"That's it?"
"No," she said. "But that's the easiest part to explain."
He looked down at the rice triangle.
It was wrapped in seaweed that crackled just a little too much.
He didn't know how to ask what he really wanted to ask.
So he asked something else.
"You ever do something so long you forget who you were without it?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then: "Art."
"You draw?"
"Used to."
"Why'd you stop?"
She shrugged.
"No one asked to see it anymore."
He turned to her then.
Really looked.
There were bags under her eyes.
Not from sleeplessness — from years. From weight.
He took a breath.
Felt it catch.
Then said it. Quiet. Like a wound being named.
"I used to play."
She didn't flinch.
Didn't interrupt.
He kept going.
"I was good. Not the best. But good enough to be on magazine covers. Good enough that people stopped seeing me as a person."
She turned her head slightly.
"What did you play?"
He hesitated.
"Cricket."
She nodded.
Didn't ask what that was.
Didn't ask what happened.
He exhaled, slow.
"I stopped after… everything collapsed."
"What's everything?"
He looked down at his hands.
At the place where gloves used to live.
"Everything," he repeated.
Another silence.
Then, quietly, she asked:
"Do you miss it?"
He thought about the sound of willow.
The sunburn on his arms.
The moment before the bowler released the ball — when time paused.
Then he thought about the press.
The betrayal.
The crowd turning cold.
The headlines. His father.
"I don't know," he said. "Some days I miss being seen. Other days… I'm glad no one's looking."
Hana didn't respond right away.
Then she said, "You're still being seen."
He glanced sideways.
"By who?"
"By me," she said.
Then stood up.
"Come," she added.
"Where?"
"Batting cage."
He blinked.
Didn't move.
"You don't have to swing," she said. "Just come."
He followed.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he didn't not want to.
The batting cage looked the same as last time.
Cages like ribs.
Lights like faded spotlights.
But today it wasn't empty.
A kid — small, wild swing, oversized helmet — was trying to hit.
He missed.
Again.
Then laughed.
Aarav watched him.
He didn't laugh.
But he didn't ache either.
When the kid left, Aarav stepped in.
No bat.
Just hands in pockets.
Machine whirred.
Balls launched.
He didn't flinch.
Hana stood outside the net, arms crossed.
After ten pitches, he stepped out.
"I'm not ready."
"I didn't ask you to be."
They walked back in silence.
But this time, it wasn't heavy.
At his door, she handed him a bento.
Different cloth today — dark green.
He held it.
Looked up.
"Thanks."
She smiled.
Only a little.
But real.
"You'll swing," she said.
"Eventually."
That night, he placed the bento on the table.
Opened it.
There was a small folded note tucked beneath the chopsticks.
In neat handwriting:
We're allowed to begin again. Even if no one claps.
He sat in the quiet for a long time.
Didn't unwrap the bat.
But he placed it on the table beside the food.
Two memories side by side.
And for once, he didn't feel the need to choose between them.