Yash didn’t meet his eyes.
“‘This thing’?”
Shubman frowned. “It’s just a phrase. I didn’t mean it—”
“But that’s how you said it.”
Yash stood, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t look angry.
Just… pulled back. Like a string was snapped quietly.
“You called it a thing,” he said, voice low. “Like it’s temporary. Like it’s a phase.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Shubman said quickly, standing too. “I swear—”
“Then what do you mean?” Yash asked, turning to him. “Because this—” he gestured between them, “—doesn’t feel like a thing to me. It feels like everything.”
That hit harder than any ball Shubman had ever misjudged on the pitch.
“I didn’t think,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Yash nodded. Once. Too tight.
Then:
“If this is just something for now... please tell me. I’d rather know than keep guessing.”
Silence.
Shubman opened his mouth.
But nothing came out.
Not yet.
And that silence said more than an answer.
Yash nodded again. Not angry.
Just done for now.
“I’ll go back to my room,” he said softly. “Text me if you figure it out.”
The door closed behind him like a breath being held.
And Shubman stood there, guilt bleeding into his hands, wondering how one sentence could break so much silence — and leave this much distance.
Shubman sat alone in the hotel room for what felt like hours.
He didn’t turn on the TV.
Didn’t pick up his phone.
Didn’t move.
Because if he moved, he might feel how empty the bed was without Yash’s warmth pressed into his side.
It was Ishan who finally knocked.
Not loudly. Not urgently.
Just one knock — a warning, not a request.
Shubman opened the door wordlessly.
Ishan walked in, tossed himself onto the chair like he owned it, and crossed his legs.
“I heard he left your room.”
Shubman said nothing.
Ishan raised an eyebrow.
“Well?”
“I said something stupid.”
“No kidding.”
Shubman sighed. “I called it a ‘thing.’ I didn’t mean to — it just slipped.”
“Of course it slipped,” Ishan said. “You’re terrified of letting people know when something actually matters to you.”
Shubman stiffened. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s completely fair. You’ve been conditioned since under-19s to keep everything close to your chest. You don’t talk about pressure. You don’t talk about love. You don’t even admit when you’re hurt.”
Shubman turned away. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“Then stop treating it like it’s something you can hide behind a joke.”
Silence.
Ishan softened. “Shub. He’s not like us. He didn’t grow up with the noise, or the cameras, or the media spin. When he gives someone his heart — it’s not filtered.”
“I know.”
“Then go fix it.”
Shubman nodded, slowly.
He didn’t go right away.
He needed air first.
He walked the hotel corridor, stopped by the vending machine, didn’t buy anything. Just stood there. Let the cold hum of the machine fill the silence in his chest.
Then his phone buzzed.
One message. From Yash.
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I’m not mad. I just don’t do temporary.
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Shubman stared at it for a long time.
Then typed:
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I don’t either. I just didn’t know how to say it until I lost the chance.
-----------------------------------------------------------
No reply.
But the read receipt showed up instantly.
He was still listening.
That was enough.
Shubman knocked on Yash’s door at 1:04 a.m.
Yash opened it after three seconds.
He was in the same hoodie from before.
His face unreadable.
Shubman didn’t speak right away.
He just stepped in, stood there for a moment, then said softly:
“It’s not a thing.”
Yash blinked.
“It’s not for now. Or for the media. Or for my reputation. It’s not casual. It’s not convenient. It’s you.”
Yash’s breath hitched.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel small,” Shubman continued. “I just... I’ve spent so many years calling things ‘nothing’ so no one could use them against me. But you’re not nothing.”
A pause.
Then quieter:
“You’re the one thing I don’t want to hide.”
Yash stepped forward slowly.
“You mean that?”
Shubman nodded.
“I don’t care what people think. I care what you feel. And I’m sorry I made you doubt that.”
Yash didn’t say anything at first.
Then he reached up, fingers brushing Shubman’s jaw.
“I believe you,” he whispered.
And when their lips met again — slower, more fragile than the night before — it didn’t feel like something new.
It felt like something finally safe.
They lay on Yash’s bed later, tangled in silence.
No need to fill the air.
No need to rush.
Shubman kissed his temple once.
Then his shoulder.
Then murmured,
“If I ever say something that hurts you again… tell me.”
Yash nodded against his chest.
“I will.”
Another beat.
Then Yash whispered:
“And next time you want to call me yours — just say it.”
Shubman smiled.
“I will.”
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[End of Chapter 15]
YOU ARE READING
Not In The Script...
RomanceIt was supposed to be fake. But the jealousy felt a little too real. When a staged romance between Shubman Gill and Yashasvi Jaiswal explodes across headlines, they're forced to play along. But as the lines blur, feelings twist into something neithe...
Chapter- 15: Don't Call It That
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