For Ayaan Sharma, the boy who faced roaring crowds without flinching, the silence you left behind became the one opponent he couldn’t tackle. You had promised him a talk. Only you never did.

Every day, between practices, endorsements, and interviews, he found himself pulling up your Instagram profile. Scrolling through your posts. Watching your reels on loop. Frowning so often that his teammates began throwing him side-eyes in the locker room.

“Bhai, why do you look like someone stole your bat?” one joked.

He only scowled deeper, shoving his phone into his bag. They wouldn’t understand.

Some nights, he typed out messages—Hey, how have you been? Did I scare you off? I’d still love to talk…—but before you could ever see them, he unsent them. Every. Single. Time.

He hated how much he cared. Hated that just when he thought he might have found something real, something away from the chaos of cricket and cameras, the universe had snatched it away.

So, he poured himself back into the game. Ran harder, trained longer, swung sharper. By the time the IPL neared, his focus was sharp on the pitch—even if his heart wasn’t.

Until the call came.

“Ayaan, you need to attend an urgent meeting,” his management insisted. “It’s for your legal advisor. You can’t ignore it.”

“I don’t care who it is,” he groaned, throwing a fit. “Pick anyone. Why drag me into this?”

But the insistence didn’t stop, and so he found himself in a glass-walled boardroom, facing a line of candidates in crisp suits.

One by one, they pitched themselves. All smiles, all ambition. But Ayaan saw it in their eyes—hungry for the fame of working with him, not the work itself. He slumped in his chair, ready to reject the lot.

And then the door opened.

The last candidate walked in.

It was you.

Ayaan’s world stilled.

You looked different now—more serious, more polished. A fitted suit framed you sharply, hair tied back, confidence radiating with every step. But beneath the professional exterior, he knew. It was you. His mystery girl.

You set your files down, began your interview with a calm authority that left even the senior lawyers nodding. Ayaan barely heard half of it—too busy watching the way you moved, the way your voice commanded the room.

When his manager turned to him for a decision, Ayaan didn’t hesitate. “Her.” His tone was firm, no room for argument.

“Are you sure? We still have—”

“I said her.” His jaw tightened. To hell with reason. To hell with logic. He wasn’t letting this chance slip through his fingers again. Even if it was only as his legal advisor.

Later, outside the boardroom, he didn’t waste a second. He caught up with you in the corridor, his hand instinctively wrapping around your wrist. The contact jolted both of you—warm, real. Too real. He immediately let go, guilt flashing across his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered quickly. “I didn’t mean to… grab you like that.”

You blinked at him, surprised. But before you could reply, he stepped closer, his voice low, raw.

“Just... why did you leave?” His eyes searched yours, pained and restless. “Why didn’t you ever contact me again? Did I… was I too forward? Did I chase you away?”