Stuck Voyage of 20's

If you looked at him from a distance — the height, the jersey, the muscle memory in his movement — Dhruv looked like someone who belonged on a court.

And in a way, he did.

He had trained his body to react before his mind did. Pivot. Guard. Leap. Dunk.

He could shut down stadium noise, shoot blind from the three-point line, and take elbows to the ribs like they were compliments.

But lately, the noise inside his head was harder to block than the crowd outside.

---

The National Zonal Tournament was just a week away, and practice had turned brutal. Drills before sunrise. Ice baths after dark. His coach wasn't smiling anymore. The team captain kept yelling instructions like they were code for survival.

"Footwork, Dhruv! You're a second late on the pivot!"

"More speed. You're not in college anymore — this is national level!"

Dhruv nodded. Breathed deep. Ran again.

But he could feel it — that slip. Not in his body.

In his focus.

---

That night, back in his dorm, he sat on the floor with his knees drawn up and his towel over his head. His shoulders ached, and not just from the game.

He hadn't called Avantika all day.

He wanted to — but what would he even say?

> "Hey, I'm crumbling under pressure but smiling in practice like I've got it all together?"

No. That wasn't him. Or maybe it was, but he hated admitting it.

Instead, he opened a note on his phone and typed:

> Sometimes I wish people would cheer for how hard I try when no one's watching.

He didn't send it to anyone. He just read it twice, then deleted it.

---

Flashback: The First Time He Fell in Love With the Game

He was 13. Shorter, skinnier, and too angry at the world.

His father had taken him to a local game, dragging him out of a fight he'd picked at school.

"You have too much energy to waste on boys who won't matter in five years," his dad had said.

On the court, he saw them — tall boys flying, chasing, colliding, and still laughing.

A kind of freedom he didn't know could exist inside lines.

That day, he decided he'd be one of them.

He didn't just want to play. He wanted the game to carry him through whatever he couldn't explain.

---

But now, at 21, national jersey on the horizon… the game didn't feel like freedom.

It felt like a mirror.

Reflecting pressure, fatigue, expectations. Everyone telling him to go faster, be better, win louder.

And then there was Avantika — the only person who never asked him to be more than what he already was.

---

Training Day — 6 AM

Sweat dripped down his jaw as he dunked again.

Coach whistled. "Okay, water break. Five minutes!"

Dhruv sank to the floor, gulping air. His phone buzzed inside his duffel.

He reached for it, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

> Avantika: "I just saw a pigeon trip on my window railing. That's me during job interviews."

He chuckled. Texted back:

> "Bet it still flew anyway."

A minute later:

> Avantika: "Yeah. That's the annoying part."

He stared at that message for a second too long.

Somehow, she always knew how to say exactly what he needed to hear.

---

Evening Strategy Meet

The coach was in full military mode. Breaking down plays. Analyzing previous tournament footage. Dhruv was trying to listen, but his mind wandered.

To a moment on the ghat, where Avantika had once said, "I think we're all pretending to be okay. But the ones who admit they're scared? They're the strongest."

"Dhruv!"

His head snapped up.

"You're zoning out again. If your mind's not here, tell me now."

"I'm here, Coach. Just tired."

Coach eyed him. "Tired isn't an excuse at this level. Push through."

He nodded again, jaw tight.

But inside, the voice said, You don't always have to push through. Sometimes, you pause. Reset. Breathe.

---

Late Night Call

That night, he finally called her.

She picked up immediately.

"Thought you'd gone all national-celeb on me," she teased.

"Yeah, well. National celebrities still need someone who reminds them to breathe."

She paused. "You okay?"

He hesitated. Then finally said, "I'm tired, V."

The nickname slipped out naturally.

"Tired like nap-tired or tired like soul-tired?"

He laughed softly. "Both."

She was quiet for a beat. "You're allowed to be. You're human, Dhruv. Not a trophy in motion."

That line hit something in him.

"You make it sound easy to not be perfect."

"No," she said. "I make it safe."

And just like that — he felt lighter.

---

The Unsent Journal Entry – Midnight

> I used to think winning would fix everything. The self-doubt. The restlessness. The question of whether I'm enough.

But I'm learning that the real win… is staying in the game when your head screams 'quit' and your heart whispers, 'breathe.'

And maybe… having someone in the stands who sees past the jersey helps more than I thought.

He saved the note this time.

And finally, went to sleep — not with the pressure to prove himself, but with the peace of being understood.