700 ᏦᎥᏝᎧᎷᏋᏖᏒᏋᏕ ᏗᏇᏗᎩ

Chapter 3: The Game of Shadows

The college campus buzzed with activity. Laughter echoed from open corridors, notes rustled under fans, and bikes zipped through the gates every hour. But to Harshan, it all felt like background noise in a film he wasn’t part of.

It had been weeks since he arrived, and the warmth that had greeted him on his first day had faded into a distant memory. People who once shared lunch or laughed with him in lecture halls now barely acknowledged his presence. Some avoided eye contact. Others offered forced smiles before drifting away to their own groups.

Harsha didn’t understand it. He hadn’t wronged anyone. He was simply… there. A quiet boy with a quiet past, trying to rebuild himself in an unfamiliar place. But in this crowded world, silence made you invisible.

The loneliness was maddening, but he buried it. He poured himself into academics, waking up early, submitting assignments on time, and attending every lab and theory session—even the dreaded Sunday classes that stretched till 5 p.m.

Still, nothing filled the hole left by the people he’d lost. His parents were too busy fighting to check on him. Ishwaani was gone, her ring still cold on his finger. And Dharan… his best friend, the one constant—was unreachable. Dharan didn’t own a phone, and their communication had ended the moment Harsha boarded that train out of his hometown.

Some nights, Harsha sat on his hostel bed, staring at the ring. He longed to hear Dharan’s voice—his silly jokes, his encouragement, even his rants about how dumb people could be. But the silence on the other end never changed. It was like a wall had been built between his past and present.

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One cloudy afternoon, Harsha was walking past the back field when he heard it.

The sound of cleats against grass. A loud whistle. And then the unmistakable thump of a football being passed.

Curious, he peeked through the wire fence and saw a group of boys on the field—practicing drills, running laps, juggling the ball mid-air. A few students sat on the steps nearby, watching with mild interest.

A banner near the corner read:
“Campus Football Club – Selection Trials Open!”

Harsha’s heart skipped.

Football.

He hadn’t played since school. Back then, it was his escape—those moments on the field when everything else disappeared, and it was just him, the ball, and the goal. Dharan would cheer from the sidelines even when Harsha tripped over his own feet. And Ishwaani… she once watched from a classroom window, smiling.

Before he knew it, he was on the field, walking up to the man with a clipboard who looked like the coach or captain.

“I saw the poster,” Harsha said. “Is it still open?”

The boy—tall, lean, probably final year—glanced up. “You’re late. But… yeah, we’re still taking trials. You play?”

Harsha nodded. “Midfield. Sometimes forward.”

The captain eyed him with a mix of curiosity and caution. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. Ball control. Go.”

Within minutes, the trial began.

What started as a simple drill turned into a full exhibition. Harsha’s movements were sharp, his passes precise, his vision sharp. He weaved through cones, timed his shots perfectly, and even pulled off a feint that made a defender lose his balance.

By the time he took the final shot and buried it into the bottom corner of the net, a few players clapped. Even the captain raised an eyebrow.

“Not bad,” he said. “Actually… really good.”