The last ball spun through the air — a blur of red against the evening sky. Dust rose from the pitch, and the faint smell of chalk and dry grass mingled with the sun-warmed air. Ji-Ho tightened his grip, pain slicing through his palm.
His fingers trembled, blood already seeping down between them. For a moment, the world went silent — just the echo of his heartbeat and the distant shouts of his friends.
Then—crack!
The bat met the ball. It shot past the bowler, rolled between the fielders, and crossed the boundary.
"Four!" someone shouted. The ground erupted in cheers. Dust lifted and swirled around their feet. Students jumped, laughing and shouting Ji-Ho's name. Some even started settling bets, teasing one another as they clapped and pointed.
Somewhere in the crowd, a stray dog barked as if approving the victory.
Ji-Ho stood dazed. His hand throbbed, a steady reminder of the cost. The adrenaline still coursed through him, blending with the ache into a strange, dizzying mix.
Narendra was the first to reach him. His grin was wide, genuine, not mocking. "Didn't think you'd hit that one," he said, patting Ji-Ho's shoulder.
Ji-Ho grinned back, breathless. "Neither did I."
From that moment, they weren't rivals anymore. They were buddies, bound by shared adrenaline and mutual respect.
Soon, Thanu, Ganga, Jyoti, and Sekhar ran over. Their laughter mixed with the noise of the crowd.
"You did it, Ji-Ho!" Ganga shouted, jumping on the spot.
Her smile faltered as she saw the blood trickling down his fingers. "Ji-Ho, your hand—!"
He looked down at the red streaks. Against the dust on his whites, it seemed darker, more dramatic than it actually was. "I'm fine," he said, though his voice wavered.
Thanu didn't wait. She gently grabbed his wrist. "Come with me."
The small infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and chalk. Sunlight slanted through the half-open window, catching the motes of dust like tiny stars.
Ji-Ho sat on the wooden bench, still in his cricket whites. The distant roar of the playground was now only a faint hum. The ceiling fan rotated lazily, cutting through the warm air with a soft, mechanical whisper.
Thanu opened the first-aid box with careful hands. Her calm face betrayed nothing, but her eyes flickered with worry.
She touched his hand, and he flinched.
"Sorry," she murmured.
He shook his head. "It's okay."
The silence between them was heavier than words. Her fingers cleaned the wound, small and precise. The antiseptic stung, and Ji-Ho gritted his teeth, but he couldn't stop watching her. Each motion, each tiny crease in her forehead, seemed magnified.
"You shouldn't have played with that hand," she said softly.
He looked at her, lips curving faintly. "You were watching. How could I not?"
Her eyes darted to his for a heartbeat, then quickly away. She kept wrapping the bandage, hiding a small smile. The touch of her hands was gentle, careful, almost enough to make him forget the pain.
"Careful, hero," she said lightly. "Try not to use it for a while."
Ji-Ho wanted to say something — anything — but the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he just flexed his fingers under the soft cotton of the bandage, feeling the sting of pain mix with warmth that had nothing to do with the injury.
When she finished, she brushed the dust from his sleeve. "There. All done."
They walked down the empty corridor. The cheers outside were only a faint echo. Thanu's braid swung lightly with each step. Ji-Ho followed her, flexing his hand carefully, feeling the residual sting — and a strange, sweet ache he didn't want to ignore.
"You really are stubborn," she said softly over her shoulder.
"Maybe. But it worked, didn't it?" he replied with a faint grin.
She didn't answer, only shook her head and hid a small smile.
When they reached the classroom, it was mostly empty, but a few classmates were lingering, packing their bags slowly. Ganga's eyes lit up when she saw Ji-Ho. "Oh-ho, look who's back — the hero of the day!"
Sekhar added, "Ji-Ho, did Thanu put magic on that bandage or what?"
Ji-Ho blushed. "Shut up, you idiots."
From the back bench, Narendra tossed a paper ball at him. "Next time, don't scare us with that blood show, hero!"
The class burst into laughter. Even Thanu, sitting quietly at her desk, hid a smile behind her notebook. For Ji-Ho, that single glimpse of her smile felt more victorious than the entire match.
They settled in for nearly an hour, the world outside slowly quieting down. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting the room in warm amber tones. The friends joked, teased, and shared small stories about the match.
"Ji-Ho, you really think you're the next Sachin Tendulkar?" Sekhar asked, leaning back in his chair and grinning.
"Hey, I hit a four, didn't I?" Ji-Ho shot back, pretending to puff his chest out.
"Yeah, yeah," Ganga teased. "Next, you'll tell us you invented cricket too!"
Thanu shook her head silently, smiling faintly as she tried to hide behind her notebook. Every now and then, Ji-Ho caught her eyes flicking toward him, and his stomach did a little flip.
Narendra leaned closer to Ji-Ho. "Bro, careful. One more heroic act and Thanu's going to start knitting you a cape."
Sekhar groaned. "Ugh, you guys are hopeless. Who cares about cricket when you can embarrass each other for an hour?"
Ji-Ho laughed, rubbing his bandaged hand gently. The pain was still there, but it was overshadowed by the warmth of friends and the small, teasing attention from Thanu.
As the distant sound of a bus engine approached, the laughter wound down. Students gathered their bags, the golden sunlight fading slowly.
Ji-Ho and Thanu walked out together, side by side. The sugarcane fields whispered in the evening breeze, and the gravel road crunched softly beneath their shoes.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked.
"Only when I move it," he said.
"Then don't."
"If I don't move it, I can't wave goodbye," he replied, grinning.
Thanu laughed softly, the sound catching in the last rays of sunlight. For Ji-Ho, that laugh was more victorious than any boundary he had hit that day.
When the bus arrived, she boarded first, waving back. Ji-Ho watched until it disappeared down the dusty road, the wind carrying a hint of her laughter.
When Ji-Ho reached home, the warm, safe feeling he had carried from school evaporated immediately. His father's sharp voice cut through the quiet:
"Ji-Ho! What have you done to your hand? Don't tell me you were reckless again!"
Ji-Ho tried to explain, but the words stumbled out awkwardly. His grandmother joined in, wagging her finger. "Always making trouble! When will you learn to behave like a proper boy?"
Even his house, filled with familiar smells of cooking and polished wood, felt cold and unwelcoming. His younger brother was at the hostel, leaving him alone with the quiet scolding of his elders.
Ji-Ho felt a hollow ache in his chest — the loneliness of having no one to share the excitement of the day, no one to laugh with, no one to understand the tiny victories or the pain.
He slipped quietly outside, seeking the solace of the night. The sky stretched wide above him, deep navy flecked with flickering stars. The cool wind brushed his face, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from neighboring gardens.
Streetlights flickered lazily along the road, their golden glow dancing on puddles left by an earlier rain.
Ji-Ho shivered against the cold but welcomed it. It matched the bittersweet ache in his heart — the thrill of the game, Thanu's laughter, the warmth of school, and the quiet loneliness of home. He breathed deeply, letting the night air fill him with a strange sense of calm.
Eventually, he returned to his room, the bandaged hand resting on the blanket beside him. The moonlight spilled over the ceiling fan, tracing slow circles across the walls. Ji-Ho lay down, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Thanu, the match, and the laughter that had filled the classroom just hours ago. His eyes grew heavy.
The cold winds, flickering streetlights, and distant stars seemed to watch over him as he drifted into sleep, carrying with him memories of a day that was bright, painful, and unforgettable.