He didn't realize when it became a routine.
The vending machine hum.
The rhythmic thud of baseballs.
The soft ache in his shoulders that now felt familiar — like background music.
Every evening, just after five, Aarav would show up at the batting cage.
Same cage.
Same machine.
Same silence.
He didn't keep score.
Didn't count hits.
Didn't record improvement.
He just… swung.
Some days he hit clean.
Some days he didn't.
But he showed up.
And that, for now, was enough.
Coach Yoshida never said much.
He'd nod when Aarav arrived.
Sometimes adjust the pitch speed.
Sometimes just observe.
No praise.
No critique.
Only presence.
And that was its own kind of mentorship.
Hana watched once in a while.
Never inside.
Always near.
She'd sit on the bench, sketching or sipping warm lemon tea, eyes drifting in and out of focus.
She didn't cheer.
Didn't advise.
Just listened —
to the sound of wood and air and the kind of silence only people who've been hurt recognize.
One day, after he'd finished thirty pitches, Aarav sat beside her on the bench.
Sweat on his brow.
Bat across his lap.
She glanced at him.
"You come here every day now."
He nodded.
"It helps."
"With what?"
He paused.
"Noise," he said.
She nodded, thoughtful.
Then asked—
"What are you practicing for?"
The question landed like a slow pitch.
Deceptively soft.
Unexpectedly heavy.
He looked at her.
Didn't smile.
Didn't answer.
Just stared at his shoes.
He hadn't asked himself that yet.
Not truly.
Because it wasn't about comeback.
It wasn't about proving anyone wrong.
He didn't want to play for India again.
Didn't want to be a star.
Didn't even want the spotlight back.
So what was it?
Why swing?
Why sweat?
Why repeat?
That night, he couldn't sleep.
The question sat at the corner of his futon like a quiet ghost.
Not haunting.
Just waiting.
He opened his journal.
Wrote:
Why am I practicing?
Not for glory. Not for revenge. Not even for healing.
Then paused.
And added:
Maybe I just want to remember how it feels to try again.
The next day, he returned to the cage.
Same time.
Same rhythm.
But the question echoed now, louder than the machine.
What are you practicing for?
He watched the ball spin toward him.
Swung.
Missed.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't frown.
He reset.
Swung again.
This time, he hit it.
The ball sailed to the net.
Soft contact.
Low flight.
But it felt… true.
Not powerful.
Not impressive.
Just real.
After the session, he walked outside.
Found Hana waiting by the fence.
She looked up.
"Did the answer come yet?"
He shook his head.
"But I think I like not knowing."
"Why?"
He looked up at the sky.
Clouds gathering, but not dark yet.
"Because if I don't know why I'm doing it…
maybe I'm finally doing it just because I want to."
She didn't respond.
Just handed him a bottle of barley tea.
No bento today.
No note.
Just shared quiet.
Later, at home, he wrote in his journal:
We train for teams.
We train for medals.
We train for trophies.
But sometimes—
we practice just to feel alive.