The bat felt lighter that morning.
Or maybe his grip had relaxed.
Maybe he was no longer holding it like it would betray him again.
He walked to the cage alone.
No coach.
No team.
Just him and the rhythm of a Tokyo morning, filtered through soft sunlight and vending machine hum.
He slotted a coin.
Stepped in.
Stared down the machine.
No thoughts.
No flashbacks.
Just breath.
First pitch — he swung.
Clean miss.
Second — fouled it off.
Too early.
Third — fast. Sharp. Unexpected.
He missed again.
This time… badly.
The sound echoed against the cage wall, and it all came flooding back:
Delhi.
The final match.
His father's stillness.
The ball spinning past him.
The reporters.
The words "overrated" and "overhyped" chasing him into silence.
His knees stiffened.
His fingers clenched the bat harder.
For a second — just one — he was that boy again.
The one who let everyone down.
The one who couldn't breathe through the noise.
Then—
he stepped back.
Took a deep breath.
And laughed.
A small, bitter laugh.
But a laugh nonetheless.
He looked at the machine.
It whirred.
Waited.
So did he.
Then he said, under his breath:
"I missed."
Again.
And no one cared.
Not even the machine.
He stepped back into position.
Swung again.
And again.
Ten balls.
Six misses.
Two foul tips.
One clean shot.
One he didn't remember — too caught up in motion.
When the machine stopped, he leaned against the cage wall.
Sweat on his forehead.
Breath in his throat.
No applause.
No judgment.
Just silence.
The good kind.
He sat outside the cage with his head down.
A bottle of water in one hand.
The bat across his knees.
And then a voice:
"You looked angry."
He turned.
Hana.
Hands in her jacket.
Hair wind-messed.
Eyes calm.
"Wasn't," he said.
"Liar."
He shrugged.
"Okay. Maybe a little."
She sat beside him.
Didn't ask if he was okay.
Didn't ask why he missed.
Instead, she said—
"Remember the first time you missed here?"
He nodded.
"You didn't speak for two hours after."
"I remember."
"And now?"
He looked at her.
Smiled.
"I spoke."
She pulled something out of her pocket.
Not a bento.
Just a single hard candy, wrapped in green plastic.
"Peace offering."
"For what?"
"For watching you miss again."
He laughed.
Took it.
Unwrapped.
Bit down.
It was sour.
Sharp.
Like honesty.
They sat there for a while.
Not as coach and player.
Not as healer and wounded.
Just two people who understood that sometimes…
missing is part of rhythm.
That night, Aarav opened his journal.
Wrote:
He missed again.
And the world didn't stop.
Neither did he.
Then added:
Maybe the miss wasn't the failure.
Maybe it was the moment before the recovery.