"If his fate was scripted, he refused to follow it"
•
•
•
Not all battles are fought in stadiums, some are fought in an empty room at 2 AM. People see the redemption, the comeback, the glory. They watch you burn, they watch you rise; What they never...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Back in his prime~ The stadium lights felt like a second sun, blinding and unyielding, but Hardik Pandya loved it. He thrived in this heat. He was young, hungry, and the whole world was watching as he took his first steps into the international spotlight. Every move he made, every ball he faced, every run he scored—it wasn't just for himself. It was for the crowd. For the country. For the praise.
It had always been about that. The roar of the fans, the headlines in the papers, the social media flooding with love. Hardik, the underdog. Hardik, the game-changer. Hardik, the man who had gone from the streets to stardom.
They were all cheering for him, his name on their lips like a mantra. The world adored him. And in return, he gave them everything—his soul, his energy, his passion. He wasn't just playing cricket; he was living for their adulation. It filled him up, made him feel like he was finally something. Someone.
In those early days, he thought he could never lose that feeling. He thought the love, the praise, the headlines would always be there. He was the hero of the hour, the one who could do no wrong.
But as he looked back at the young man he was then, he saw something else—a boy who had depended on the validation of others to feel worthy. When the crowd cheered, it felt like the only real thing in his life. When the cameras flashed, it was the only thing that made him feel alive. It was like a drug, and he couldn't stop chasing the high.
Now, standing here alone in the empty dressing room after the game, the stadium outside still buzzing with fans who didn't even notice he was gone, Hardik felt that weight—the absence of it.
The cheers. The praise. The feeling of belonging.
Had it all been a lie? Or had he simply outgrown the illusion?
---
Hardik's fingers trembled as he scrolled through his phone. The words blurred together, but the sting of them was clear.
"Hardik Pandya: The Worst Captain MI Has Ever Seen."
"Pandya's IPL Disaster—From Star to Failure."
"Was MI's Investment in Hardik a Mistake?"
Each headline pierced him deeper than any ball ever could. Failure. Disappointment. Betrayal. Words that used to feel distant, like they belonged to other people, not him. But now? They were his reality. He couldn't escape them.
For a moment, he stared at the screen, willing it to change, willing the people who wrote these things to understand. He'd given everything—everything for this. And this is what he got in return?
His fingers tightened around the phone, and his breath came out in ragged gasps. He could feel the weight of their judgments pressing down on him. It was like they had all turned on him at once. The fans. The media. The very people who had once screamed his name now booed his every move, ridiculed his every mistake.
