❝ 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔'𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 - 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒈𝒍𝒚. ❞
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Sometimes love doesn't knock on the right door. Sometimes it slips in through a misdial, a l...
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Author's POV-
The screen glowed softly in the dark, the rest of the room silent except for the distant ticking of a clock and Arjun's soft, even breathing from the other side through the laptop screen.
Mira stared at the his peaceful face and then to her phone screen for a long second. Her finger hovered over the "Create New Account" button.
She clicked.
Username: @boundbycoverdrives
Bio: For the boy who played not just with skill, but with soul.
She didn't add her name.
Didn't link it to her main account.
Didn't even follow anyone she knew.
This was just for him. For Arjun.
For the cricketer who once drove six hours in rain to watch a gully match because his childhood friend was playing. For the boy who danced like an idiot after hitting a 50 in inter-college cricket only because his dad was in the stands. For the man who crumbled quietly in grief but still tried to smile at his mother before bed every night.
She began posting.
Post 1: 📸 A grainy photo from a Ranji match. Arjun mid-shot, feet dancing across the crease. 📝 They call it form. I call it fire. He may have lost the match, but he won hearts. #ArjunRathee
Post 2: 📸 A candid moment from a press conference. His nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. 📝 Not everyone sees the weight behind a smile. #WeSeeYouArjun
Post 3: 📸 A blurry picture of the night sky. 📝 Some stars aren't fading. They're just gathering strength. #ComeBackStronger
Mira let out a long breath as she placed her phone on the bedside table. The screen still showed the recent posts she had made—subtle, fierce, and laced with hope. Each caption, each image, each carefully chosen word had been crafted with one single intention: to remind Arjun of who he truly was, beyond the noise, beyond the trolls, beyond the silence that had gripped his soul.
She sat up and stretched, bones cracking, muscles protesting gently. The emotional weight of the day hung on her shoulders. She walked to her wardrobe, slowly changing out of her blue denim skirt and pink vest top into something far more "her"—a baggy white T-shirt that screamed in bold black text: "Sass Level: Mira" and a pair of loose grey trousers with clouds printed along the seams.
