The afternoon sun pressed gently over the Mumbai practice ground, painting the grass in streaks of molten gold. The faint smell of sweat and turf hung in the air, blending with the rhythmic thwack of cricket balls striking the nets. It wasn't an official match—just another practice before the upcoming ODI series—but to Ruhaan, every delivery felt like destiny drawing closer.
Four days. That's all that stood between him and his debut.
Reyaan stood near the crease, tall and calm, his six-foot-two frame casting a long shadow across the pitch. The captain's gaze was sharp, unhurried. His presence alone steadied the younger players, though he rarely raised his voice. He didn't need to. Authority, in his case, wasn't something he demanded—it was something that simply existed around him.
Ruhaan adjusted his gloves, jogging over with that infectious grin of youth. "Captain, are you sure you're not secretly trying to break my confidence before the big day?"
Reyaan's lips curved faintly. "Confidence doesn't break that easily. Not if it's earned."
Ruhaan laughed under his breath. "So you're saying I'm ready?"
"I'm saying you'll find out when you walk onto the field." Reyaan's tone was even, but his eyes softened slightly, like an unspoken approval hid behind them.
They both stood for a moment, the air between them easy, layered with respect. Then Reyaan asked casually, "So, who's coming to watch your debut? Parents, I assume?"
Ruhaan's grin turned softer. "Yeah. And someone else."
"Oh?" Reyaan arched a brow. "Don't tell me you already have a girlfriend. The tabloids will love that."
Ruhaan burst into laughter. "Not a girlfriend. My sister."
That made Reyaan pause. "Sister?"
"Yeah," Ruhaan said, adjusting his gloves.
"Elder sister. She's more like… everything, really. She raised me when our parents were caught up in work."
Ruhaan's gaze flickered to the horizon. "She doesn't really fit in anywhere, but somehow, she makes everyone else want to be better. She's the kind of person you don't forget after you meet her. Though she doesn't meet many. We don't talk much these days, but—she'll be there."
Reyaan tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. "Sounds like someone worth knowing. What does she do?"
Ruhaan hesitated, about to answer—when Reyaan's phone buzzed insistently. He sighed. "The board. Again."
"Go," Ruhaan said, smiling. "You have your own match to play with them."
Reyaan smirked and walked off, phone to his ear, though his thoughts lingered for a moment longer on that simple word: sister.
Across continents, the soft hum of monitors filled the corridors of the Geneva Medical Institute. The scent of antiseptic, the low shuffle of shoes, the distant rhythm of a heart monitor—it was all familiar music to Aadhya Raivarma.
Her white coat flowed behind her as she walked, calm and sure. She never hurried, yet the world seemed to move faster around her. The junior doctors watched her pass in quiet reverence, their conversations faltering, their postures straightening. She was not a woman of many words, but the weight of her silence carried farther than speeches ever could.
Inside the cardiac ward, a young boy clutched a small figurine, his face pale from surgery. When Aadhya stopped by his bedside, he blinked up, nervous.
"You're awake," she said softly, checking his vitals. Her tone held no outward warmth, yet it steadied him instantly. "Good. That means you're winning."
He nodded weakly, smiling for the first time. Aadhya allowed the faintest trace of a smile in return—small, almost invisible—but for those who worked under her, that was sunlight itself.
She moved from patient to patient, precise as clockwork, her mind and hands moving as one. By the time she stepped into the cafeteria for her brief break, the staff gave her space without needing to be asked. She liked quiet. They respected that.
She poured herself a black coffee and sat by the far corner table—the one facing the wide glass wall overlooking the Alps. For a few moments, she simply watched the clouds drift.
The television on the wall played faintly in the background—sports news, something she usually ignored—until a name caught her attention.
"Ruhaan Raivarma," the anchor announced, "set to debut in the upcoming ODI for India. The youngest in the squad."
Aadhya's head turned, almost involuntarily. Her brother's face flashed on screen—smiling, confident, with that same stubborn spark she'd known since childhood.
One of her team members, Dr. Mira, paused beside her. "Aadhya, that's your brother, isn't it?"
"Yes," Aadhya replied simply.
"He's… impressive," Mira said, smiling. "You must be proud."
Aadhya didn't look away from the screen. "Pride is unnecessary," she said, her voice calm. "He worked for this. That's enough."
Mira hesitated, unsure if that was coldness or quiet affection. Then she smiled lightly and walked off.
For a while, Aadhya sat alone, the coffee cooling in her hand. On the screen, reporters asked Ruhaan about pressure, about expectations. His laughter was easy, his eyes alive. Watching him, she felt something warm stir beneath the layers of discipline she'd built around herself. She rarely allowed emotion to slip through, but now, her heart ached—not from distance, but from memory.
That night, the halls were empty. Aadhya sat at her desk, the glow of her monitor painting her face in soft light. Files were stacked neatly, untouched for once. Her phone buzzed.
Ruhaan Calling.
Her lips curved faintly. She answered. "You should be asleep," she said.
"Couldn't," he replied, voice full of boyish excitement. "Too much adrenaline."
"You'll burn out if you don't rest."
"I just wanted to hear your voice before the match," he said. "Feels like it's been forever since you scolded me."
She exhaled lightly, her silence carrying its own affection. "You sound well."
"I am," he said, softer now. "But it'd be better if you were here."
She didn't answer right away. The city lights reflected faintly in her eyes, her thoughts distant. "You remember what I told you before you chose cricket?"
"That you'd be there when I made it." His voice was quiet, hopeful.
A pause. Then—"I'll keep my word," she said finally.
Ruhaan exhaled audibly, relief wrapped in joy. "Then I'm definitely hitting a century. For you."
"You should," she said. "If not, I'll make sure you run laps till dawn."
He laughed softly. "Still as terrifying as ever."
She didn't reply, but he could hear her faint smile through the silence.
When the call ended, she leaned back, staring at the night outside her window. The lake shimmered under the moonlight, still and vast. She hadn't returned to India in years, but now, the idea didn't feel impossible.
It felt inevitable.
Somewhere in Mumbai, Reyaan Rathore scrolled through a list of debut players on his phone. Ruhaan's name caught his eye—and lingered there. Something about the boy's calm under pressure had reminded him of someone. He couldn't quite name who.
He locked the screen, unaware that the name beneath Ruhaan's "Emergency Contact" read: Dr. Aadhya Raivarma.
The world, it seemed, was already setting the stage.