700 ᏦᎥᏝᎧᎷᏋᏖᏒᏋᏕ ᏗᏇᏗᎩ

Chapter 3: The Game of Shadows

A small smile touched Harsha’s lips—his first in weeks.

“You’re in,” the captain added. “Welcome to the team.”

---

For a few days, something changed.

Being on the football team gave Harshan a new rhythm. Practice sessions became a place to release stress. Running drills made him forget the cold mess food, the piles of records and assignments, and the pain of being ignored in class.

He started waking up excited. For the first time in college, he felt like he belonged somewhere.

But the feeling didn’t last.

The whispers returned—this time, from within the team.

“Who does this guy think he is?”

“He’s just showing off…”

“He thinks he’s better than us because he dribbled past Sairam once.”

They never said it to his face. But Harsha felt it. Passes during practice that never reached him. Silent glares. Jokes made behind his back.

Worse, whenever there was an actual match coming up—be it intra-college or a friendly scrimmage—Harsha was benched.

Always.

“Next time, bro,” they’d say.

“But I’m ready,” Harsha insisted. “I’ve done all the drills, I show up every time—”

“Chill, we’ve got a rotation,” someone muttered.

He didn’t buy it.

One evening, he finally approached the captain. Practice had just ended, and everyone was walking off the field. Harshan waited until the others had gone.

“Captain,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Can I ask something?”

The captain glanced at him, already aware what was coming.

“Why am I not being put in for matches?” Harshan asked. “I’ve played better than most in training. I give my full. Every time. What’s the reason?”

The captain sighed, rubbing his neck. “Look, you’re good. No denying that. But…”

“But what?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Harsha blinked. “What?”

“You’re not… used to this level. Our play gets rough. It’s not like school football. If someone goes for a tackle and injures you, you’ll be out for weeks. Not worth the risk.”

Harsha stared at him. “That doesn’t make sense.”

The captain shrugged. “Trust me, it’s for your own good.”

And with that, he walked away.

Harsha stood there, stunned. Hurt? The only injury he’d gotten in weeks was from carrying all his emotional baggage. But now, even here—where he’d found a slice of peace—he wasn’t wanted.

---

The following week, things worsened. Assignments were due in clusters. Records had to be submitted, signed, rechecked. The lab wanted observations on two separate experiments in one week. Professors handed out punishments for delays. Even Sunday, the supposed rest day, became a 9-to-5 lecture slot.

Harsha tried to manage it all, but the pressure kept building.

One Sunday 8 p.m, he returned to his hostel late. Everyone else was already inside, lights off, some snoring. He sat on his bed, quietly pulling out his bag. His record book had been rejected again, and his shoes were still muddy from practice no one appreciated.

He took the silver ring from his pocket and held it in his palm.

His chest tightened.

He had nowhere left to go.

He couldn’t talk to Dharan—no phone. His parents were too absorbed in their own fights. Ishwaani was gone, and even in a place of new beginnings, people had already started pushing him away.

Tears welled in his eyes.

“Why do I always end up alone?” he whispered to the darkness.

His voice cracked.

“Why does no one talk to me? What did I ever do to deserve this?”

He clutched the ring tighter. The metal bit into his skin.

“I tried… I gave everything. I don’t smoke, I don’t fight, I work hard… and still…”

“Why in this world… do I have to bear so much pain?”

He buried his face into his arms, hoping that sleep would erase the ache.

But it didn’t.

The ache remained. Quiet and constant.

Like the ring on his finger.