Ayaan was barely out of his early twenties when the country began chanting his name. The rising star of Indian cricket. With that boyish grin, messy hair, and the kind of looks that made aunties pinch their daughters’ arms in teasing, he became an overnight heartthrob.

Every match he played was like a festival. Crowds erupted not only for his cover drives and sixes, but also for the way he pushed his hair back, how he smiled after hitting a boundary, or the subtle wink he gave to the cameras. Life was smooth—endorsements lining up, fans crushing hard, his career blooming like butter melting on a hot paratha.

When the new tournament was announced, his team had to attend a press conference and promotional events. Ayaan, though used to flashing cameras, still preferred the field to microphones.

As he sat in the hotel lobby, waiting for his teammates to gather, his eyes flickered toward a giant television screen broadcasting a live debate. A girl stood there, fiery yet calm, countering senior politicians with words sharper than any Yorker he’d bowled against. He didn’t even know your name, but something about the way your eyes lit up when you argued, the conviction in your voice, rooted him in place.

Before he could lean closer, his teammates dragged him away. “Oi! Press’s waiting.” He stumbled forward, but the image of you lingered, etched into his mind like the score of his favorite match.

Days passed. The tournament drew nearer, practices grew tougher, but your voice refused to leave his head. One evening, while his teammates lounged in his apartment—gaming, eating pizza, laughing loudly—he caught himself zoning out. Suddenly, he remembered you. The girl on TV.

While the others debated FIFA tactics, he quietly pulled out his phone and searched. Activist girl, debate, politics, national TV. Nothing. No name, no lead. With every failed search, his hope thinned. He grumbled, tossing the phone aside.

Until… fate struck again. Scrolling through Instagram reels one night, he froze. There you were. The same eyes, the same fire, only this time in a clip of you speaking at a university event. He clicked your profile faster than he’d ever run a single.

And then it happened. His thumb betrayed him—accidentally pressing follow. His heart dropped. Shit. He hovered over unfollow, mentally scolding himself. Idiot, she’s an activist, not some influencer who cares. She won’t even notice. Let it be. No big deal.

Weeks slipped by. Practices intensified. The finals loomed. Ayaan kept his focus sharp, except for the tiny habit of checking Instagram more than usual.

And then it came. A single notification.

{{user}} followed you back.

His chest tightened. He wasn’t supposed to care this much, but a smile crept onto his lips anyway. Between sweaty nets and tired limbs, he felt like a kid again. On impulse, he typed out a message: “Would you like to join the finals?”

Almost immediately, panic hit him. Are you mad, Ayaan? He unsent it. It was silly. He had a century to score, a country to prove himself to. She was just a girl.

The finals arrived. Pressure was heavy. When the scoreboard finally glared his first century, he raised his bat, soaking in the applause.

And then his heart stopped.

In the sea of fans, banners, and tricolors—he saw you. Not just there. Clapping. Smiling.

For him?

Something inside him shifted. The second innings began, and Ayaan played with a fire he didn’t know he had. Shot after shot, he carved the victory for his team. The crowd went wild when the final run sealed the win. Teammates lifted him, confetti rained, cameras flashed.

But he wasn’t looking for the cameras. He was searching.

You weren’t there anymore.

Heart racing, he slipped away from the chaos, weaving through corridors, still in sweaty gear, half a wreck. And just as you were about to leave the stadium gates, he found you.

“Hey!” he called, breathless. You turned, surprised.

Awkwardly, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I—uh—just… wanted to thank you. For coming. It… it meant a lot.”