Two days after the tournament, the city felt unusually quiet for some people.
Not because anything had changed—but because Nikhil finally noticed the silence.
He rode his bike through familiar roads, the engine humming beneath him, streetlights stretching into long yellow streaks as he sped past. Night air pressed against his face, cool and sharp, filling his lungs easily.
Movement had always been easy.
Thinking wasn't.
He slowed slightly as he entered the upscale neighborhood he'd grown up in—wide roads, trimmed hedges, houses that looked less like homes and more like mansions. His house stood at the end of the lane, lights glowing softly behind tall gates.
Nikhil didn't stop immediately.
He circled once more, letting the engine roar louder than necessary before finally pulling in and cutting it off.
The silence hit him instantly.
Inside, the house was immaculate. Too immaculate. Everything had its place, and nothing felt lived in. A house designed to impress visitors, not comfort its residents.
"Mom?" Nikhil called out, tossing his helmet onto the console table.
"In the study," came a voice—calm, composed, unmistakably his mother's.
Shreya Kapoor is a well-known advocate, famous for never losing a case in court.
She looked up from a stack of files as he entered. Even at home, she carried herself like she was in court—back straight, eyes sharp, mind always two steps ahead.
"You're late," she said, not accusing. Just stating a fact.
"Lost track of time," Nikhil replied lightly. "Happens."
She studied him for a moment longer than usual, then nodded. "Dinner's on the table. Your father won't be joining us."
Nikhil smiled faintly. "Of course."
Ajay Roy rarely joined them for dinner.
The richest man in the city didn't come home tired—he came home busy. CEO of one of the largest investment firms in the region, his schedule ran on meetings, deals, and numbers that didn't allow room for conversations that didn't produce returns.
Nikhil grabbed a plate and sat across from his mother. The food was warm, perfectly cooked, untouched by urgency.
"So," Shreya said casually, "how are you feeling after the match?" (his football practice match.)
"We won," Nikhil replied. "Felt good."
"That's not what I asked."
Nikhil paused. Then shrugged. "Fine."
She didn't push.
That was her strength. And sometimes, her flaw.
After dinner, Nikhil headed upstairs. His room was large, well-furnished, filled with things he liked—but nothing that anchored him. Trophies lined one shelf, medals on another. Jerseys hung neatly in the wardrobe.
Achievements everywhere.
Meaning nowhere.
He flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Felix came to mind.
Not because Felix had lost the final, but because he hadn't looked empty afterward.
That unsettled Nikhil.
Don't take him wrong.
He knows Felix, his friend, always tries to go for first place, and if he doesn't get it, he blames himself for it.
But this time, he didn't see any self blame in Felix's eyes.
Felix had been quiet lately. Focused. Not withdrawn—but inward. Dev, too, had his own rhythm, disappearing into projects and thoughts that didn't require noise.
And Nikhil?
He'd been left alone.
The thought annoyed him.
He grabbed his phone, scrolling aimlessly. Messages. Highlights. Comments. Praise. Noise.
"Hey, dude, what a great match!!!"
"You played fabulously, Nikhil."
"We have won today's match because of Nikhil."
"..."
"..."
None of it stuck.
SIGH
With a frustrated sigh, he stood, changed, and headed back out.
The bike roared to life again, cutting through the stillness of the night.
This time, he didn't ride fast.
He rode without direction.
Street after street passed. Familiar corners. Empty signals. A red light stopped him near the river bridge. He put his foot down, engine idling beneath him.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of water flowing below.
Nikhil hated moments like this.
Silence made room for thoughts he didn't like.
His father's voice surfaced—not harsh, just distant.
"You have potential. Just don't waste it on distractions."
Football wasn't a distraction to Nikhil.
It was an escape.
The light turned green.
He accelerated instantly, leaving the thought behind.
But it followed him anyway.
Felix wasn't escaping anymore.
That was the problem.
Felix was stopping. Thinking. Choosing.
Nikhil didn't know how to do that.
He pulled into an empty parking lot and killed the engine. Sat there for a few seconds, helmet still on, visor fogged slightly from his breath.
"What are you doing?" he muttered to himself.
No answer came.
He removed the helmet and leaned back against the bike, staring up at the sky. Stars were faint, dulled by city lights, but still there if you looked hard enough.
His life, by most standards, was perfect.
Money. Freedom. Support. No pressure to prove himself.
And yet—
Stillness felt dangerous.
Because if he slowed down too much, he might have to ask questions he wasn't ready to answer.
What happens when the cheering stops?
What happens when winning isn't enough?
What happens when motion runs out?
Nikhil laughed softly, shaking his head.
"Idiot," he said to the night. "Overthinking."
That's what Felix did.
And look where that got him—uncertain, conflicted, standing at a crossroads.
Nikhil preferred straight roads.
He stood, put the helmet back on, and started the engine.
As he rode home, the familiar rhythm returned. Wind. Speed. Noise.
The world simplified again.
When he reached the red light near his house, he stopped once more.
The engine idled.
Silence pressed in.
The light turned green.
Nikhil didn't hesitate.
He accelerated immediately, choosing motion over stillness.
The road welcomed him back.
And for now—
That was enough.
AN- Hello, guys. Before moving to volume 2, I want to show some more moments of a few characters, as they are important of further story. This chapter shows little about the internal thoughts of Nikhil.
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