Aarav stood frozen on the wooden bridge, his heart unexpectedly racing. He wasn't used to moments like this — on the pitch, he thrived under pressure, knew what his next ball would be, and could plan six deliveries ahead. But here, faced with the simple choice of whether to say hello to a stranger, he felt more nervous than he ever had with a ball in hand.
The girl lowered her camera and looked at him briefly. It wasn't the kind of glance that invited or pushed away — just neutral, curious, as though she was sizing up another tourist in the valley. Aarav hesitated, then forced himself to walk forward.
"Beautiful view, isn't it?" he said, his voice steady, though inside, he felt like his pulse had jumped a notch.
She smiled faintly. "It is. I've been trying to capture the light before it disappears."
Her voice carried a warmth, soft yet clear, with a faint Telugu lilt that he recognized instantly.
"You're from Andhra?" he asked before he could stop himself.
That made her turn to him more directly, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You know Telugu?"
Aarav grinned, relief washing over him. "I should. I'm from Hyderabad."
Her face lit up in recognition, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Really? I'm from Vijayawada. Kavitha," she added, introducing herself with a small nod.
"Aarav," he replied, extending his hand. She shook it lightly, her palm cool against his.
They stood for a moment on the bridge, the stream rushing beneath them, both silently amused at meeting someone from home so far away in the mountains.
"So what brings you here, Aarav-from-Hyderabad?" she asked, her tone playfully teasing.
Aarav thought for a second. The honest answer — I needed to escape before cricket swallowed me whole — felt too heavy for a first conversation. So he softened it. "Just needed a break. Long season. Thought a change of scenery might help."
She nodded knowingly. "Same here. MBBS second year. The textbooks never end. My friends and I decided to sneak away before the exams crush us."
Her words carried the exhaustion of a student who had been buried under anatomy charts and late-night study sessions, yet there was a spark in her eyes — a hunger to live, to breathe outside the walls of classrooms. Aarav found it strangely familiar, like looking at a different version of himself.
They talked a little more as the sky darkened — about the food stalls near the temple, about how cold the nights were compared to the plains, about the fun of traveling with friends versus traveling alone. Aarav didn't tell her yet about cricket. For once, he enjoyed being just Aarav, not Aarav Reddy, the Ranji bowler.
As her friends called out to her from the end of the bridge, Kavitha gave him a small smile. "Well, Aarav-from-Hyderabad, I'll see you around. Manali isn't that big."
She waved and walked away, her laughter carrying faintly on the chilly breeze as she rejoined her group.
Aarav remained on the bridge, staring after her. He wasn't sure what this meant — if it meant anything at all. But something about her presence had tugged him out of his fatigue in a way that no rest day or physio session ever could.
For the first time since the Ranji season ended, Aarav wasn't thinking about cricket, fitness, or even the looming IPL. His thoughts were on Kavitha, the girl with the camera, whose smile lingered in his mind long after she'd disappeared into the streets of Manali.