He could've ignored the call.
Could've deleted the voicemail.
Could've drowned himself in music or noise or sleep.
But he didn't.
Instead, Aarav walked to the cage the next day —
bat in hand, heartbeat uncertain,
Delhi still echoing between his ribs.
The sky was cloudy.
Not threatening rain.
Just undecided.
He liked that.
It matched his mood.
Coach Yoshida wasn't there.
No other players.
Just the cage.
And him.
Perfect.
He didn't stretch.
Didn't warm up.
Didn't think.
Slotted the coin.
Stepped in.
Held the bat loosely.
First pitch —
he swung.
Missed.
Clean.
Wide.
Not even close.
His grip tightened.
Delhi flashed behind his eyes.
Not the match.
Not the scandal.
Just the feeling.
The way silence used to follow a mistake like a punishment.
Second pitch —
He swung again.
Too early.
Missed again.
His body tensed.
Shoulders stiffened.
But he didn't step back.
Didn't curse.
Didn't look away.
He adjusted his stance.
Third pitch —
He timed it.
Watched it closely.
Swung.
Miss.
Not by much.
But enough.
Enough to trigger that old voice in his head:
"Three strikes. You're out."
But then… nothing happened.
No umpire.
No crowd.
No coach shaking his head.
No father walking away.
Just the sound of the machine loading again.
Waiting.
Ready.
Aarav exhaled.
Took one step back.
Then… forward again.
This time, he didn't swing.
Let the ball pass.
Watched it.
Breathed.
Then spoke to no one:
"I'm still here."
The machine whirred again.
He swung.
Didn't care about hitting.
Just wanted to be present.
Felt the air.
The weight.
The burn in his palms.
And something inside him —
didn't flinch.
By the end of the round,
he had hit three.
Missed seven.
But it wasn't about numbers anymore.
It was about the fact that after three strikes—
he didn't walk away.
Outside, Hana was sitting on the bench.
Sketchbook open.
Pen still.
She looked up.
"You missed."
"Three times," he replied.
"Did it hurt?"
He paused.
"Only for a second."
"And then?"
He smiled.
"Then I remembered I'm not playing to win anymore."
She nodded.
"You stayed."
He nodded back.
"That's the win."
They sat in silence.
Not the kind that follows defeat.
The kind that follows endurance.
Later that night, Aarav opened his journal.
Wrote:
Three strikes. Still here.
Still breathing.
Still willing to swing again.
Then added:
Maybe strength isn't hitting every ball.
Maybe it's standing there after you miss.