What began as a chance meeting on the trek quickly turned into something more. Over the next few days in Manali, Aarav and Kavitha kept bumping into each other — at the tiny café near the river, at the local market where tourists haggled over woolen shawls, even at the temple at the hilltop where both had gone for the view rather than prayer. At first, it felt like coincidence. But soon, they stopped pretending.
"Looks like we're destined to cross paths," Kavitha had laughed on the fourth day when Aarav joined her and her friends at the bonfire.
"Or maybe I'm just following you," Aarav teased, and for the first time in weeks, he felt genuinely carefree.
The days slipped into a rhythm. Mornings often began with treks, where Kavitha's friends would race ahead while she and Aarav walked side by side, trading stories. She told him about growing up in Vijayawada, about the pressure of medical school and the endless hours of anatomy labs. He shared stories from the Ranji season — not just the wickets, but the grind, the sleepless nights, the weight of expectation that came with every ball he bowled.
One afternoon, sitting by the Beas River, she looked at him seriously."Do you ever… worry you'll burn out? Like medicine sometimes feels for me?"
Aarav skipped a pebble across the water, watching the ripples. "All the time. This season was my first in Ranji, and I felt like if I didn't take a break, cricket would eat me alive. That's why I came here. To breathe."
Their eyes met, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between them — a recognition that they both carried heavy burdens, and that maybe, for these days, they could put them down.
Evenings were softer. Sometimes they sat with a group at the hostel, playing carrom or laughing over silly card games. Other nights, they drifted into quieter corners — a bench overlooking snow-dusted pines, or the rooftop where the stars seemed impossibly close. Those conversations ran deeper. Kavitha admitted she had never met a professional cricketer before and was still startled every time she remembered. Aarav admitted he didn't know where cricket would take him, but he had promised himself not to lose the joy of the game along the way.
There was comfort in how easily they understood each other. No grand declarations, no promises. Just presence.
When the two weeks came to an end, they both knew the trip had changed something. On the final morning, as Kavitha's friends packed their bags and Aarav stood near the gate of the guesthouse, there was a strange heaviness in the air.
"So, this is it?" Kavitha asked softly, adjusting her scarf.
"Guess so," Aarav replied. He hesitated, then pulled out his phone. "But… we don't have to let it end here."
She smiled and nodded. They exchanged numbers, the act feeling simple yet weighted with meaning. Neither of them said what they were both thinking — that these days together had carved something lasting in their hearts.
Instead, Kavitha gave him a small wave. "Maybe destiny will decide the rest."
Aarav watched her walk away, the mountain air sharp in his lungs. For the first time in months, he wasn't thinking of cricket, of scores, or of selectors. All he could think about was the girl from Vijayawada who had walked into his life in Manali and left him wondering if some matches weren't meant to be played on the field at all.