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Chapter 20 - What Are You Running From?

The phone rang once.

Then stopped.

Aarav didn't notice at first.

He was on the floor, stretching his arms after another hour at the batting cage.

Rain tapped against the window — not heavy, not light.

Just persistent.

He glanced at the screen.

+91…Delhi.

The number wasn't saved.

But the city code felt like a shout.

He stared at it.

Let the screen go dark.

Then fade.

Then light up again.

One voicemail.

He didn't open it.

Not yet.

He walked to the sink.

Washed his hands.

The bat still rested near the door, towel-draped like always.

Nothing had changed.

And yet—

everything had shifted.

Because Delhi still had his number.

He sat down.

Phone in hand.

His thumb hovered over the play icon.

Didn't move.

The silence stretched longer than the voicemail ever could.

Then—

he tapped.

The message played.

Aarav?

It's Arjun bhaiya.

From the academy.

Listen, I don't know if this will reach you.

Your dad doesn't talk about you much anymore.

But coach…

he's not well.

Some of the younger kids still ask about you, you know?

Still remember that fifty on a broken toe.

I don't know what happened with the press.

I don't care.

I just…

I thought you should know.

Sometimes running isn't the same as leaving.

Call me back if you want. Or don't.

Just… take care.

End of message.

The room didn't move.

But his chest did.

Too fast.

Too tight.

He placed the phone down.

Carefully.

Like it might explode.

He stood.

Paced once.

Twice.

Then sat again.

Then stood again.

Coach. Not well.

He hadn't thought about that man's face in months.

But now, it burned behind his eyelids.

The red whistle.

The barked orders.

The rare nod of approval.

The silence after Aarav missed that one shot.

The silence that felt like exile.

He picked up the phone.

Scrolled to the voicemail.

Listened again.

This time, slower.

Every word hit differently.

Sometimes running isn't the same as leaving.

What was he running from?

Failure?

His father?

Or the boy he used to be?

A knock.

He didn't answer.

The door opened anyway.

Hana.

She stepped inside, umbrella still dripping.

Saw the look on his face.

Didn't ask.

Just sat across from him.

Waited.

Finally, he said:

"Someone from Delhi called."

She nodded.

Let him continue.

"Coach is sick. My old one. From the academy."

He rubbed his neck.

"I haven't thought about him in so long."

Pause.

"I left without saying anything.

I didn't even return his shoes."

She sipped from her tea.

Said nothing.

But her silence made room for truth.

He exhaled.

"I thought running would erase everything.

But maybe I'm still carrying it.

Just wearing it differently."

She looked at him.

Finally asked:

"So what will you do now?"

He didn't know.

Not yet.

That night, he stood at the window, rain misting the glass.

Tokyo glowed quiet.

No cheers.

No horns.

Just breath.

He thought of Delhi.

The noise.

The dust.

The weight.

And the shoes in his old locker that probably still had his name written in black marker.

He didn't decide anything.

But he wrote something in his journal:

They say you can run from the past.

But what if it's not chasing you?

What if it's just waiting — where you dropped it?

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