The stands were smaller than any he had ever played in.
No cameras.
No LED screens.
Just old wooden bleachers that creaked every time someone shifted.
And yet—
to Aarav, they felt like a foreign land.
He sat in the second row, hoodie on, hands clasped between his knees, trying to follow the rhythm of a game he didn't understand.
The announcer spoke quickly in Japanese.
Cheers rose and fell with strange timing.
Some fans stood up after a strike.
Others yelled at what seemed like nothing.
Aarav blinked.
He had no idea what was happening.
Hana sat beside him, calm as always.
She didn't explain the rules.
Didn't ask if he was confused.
She just watched.
Every so often, she'd clap softly.
Or sip from her juice box.
Or lean forward slightly, as if the next play might carry a secret.
Behind them, a group of students laughed loudly, shouting names of the players.
"Ganbare, Keita!"
"Strike him out, Yuto!"
Their joy felt… honest.
Like they weren't watching to analyze.
Just to feel.
Aarav exhaled slowly.
Back in Delhi, he could read a match like a map.
He knew exactly where the next ball would go.
He knew the rhythm of the bowler's breath, the twitch in a batsman's foot.
Here?
Every pitch felt like a question he didn't know how to answer.
The batter missed.
A sound went off — not quite an alarm, not quite applause.
People clapped.
Aarav didn't.
He looked at Hana.
Raised an eyebrow.
"Out," she said, without turning.
"Oh."
She didn't laugh at him.
Just passed him a small packet of dried plum candy.
He took one.
Too salty.
Too sour.
But strangely addictive.
As the innings changed, a school band played in the far corner.
Offbeat.
Offkey.
Perfect.
No one judged.
No one shushed.
Everyone just… let it be.
For a second, Aarav let himself imagine being on the field.
Holding a bat again.
Running bases.
Wearing a jersey without a surname that carried weight.
He blinked the thought away.
A boy caught a fly ball in the outfield.
The crowd erupted.
Aarav flinched — not because of the sound,
but because he remembered how that kind of cheer once felt.
Then he smiled.
Because this time, it wasn't for him.
And that was okay.
Hana leaned closer.
Not to whisper.
Just to be near.
He didn't move.
She finally said, "You're watching too hard."
He frowned.
"What?"
"You're trying to solve the game. Just let it play."
He stared at the field.
A pitcher adjusted his cap.
A coach waved both hands in a circle.
Someone in the stands waved a flag shaped like a cat.
And for the first time that afternoon—
Aarav stopped trying to understand.
He just… watched.
He didn't cheer.
Didn't clap.
Didn't eat anything else.
But he smiled at a good swing.
Laughed softly when a runner tripped halfway between second and third.
And when the final inning ended and the players bowed to the crowd,
Aarav stood too.
Not out of habit.
But out of respect.
As the crowd thinned, Hana stood beside him.
"So?"
He shrugged.
"I don't know this sport."
"You don't have to."
He nodded.
"I think… that's what I liked."
They walked out together.
The sun peeked through the clouds.
Rain still lingering in the corners of the sidewalk.
He paused near the vending machine.
Same one as always.
Same options.
He pressed the button without thinking.
A can of sweet milk tea dropped.
He offered it to Hana.
She raised an eyebrow.
"You hate this one."
He smiled.
"I'm learning new things."
That night, he sat at the table.
Wrote a sentence on a blank page.
It felt good to not be expected to know everything.
Then wrote one more.
Maybe I don't have to be good at it to love it.