Not In The Script...

Chapter- 32: The Notification

"What if this was why he hesitated every time Yash asked where they stood?'

"What if last night meant nothing?"

"What if he had just been a distraction again?'

Yash’s throat burned as panic clawed its way up his chest.
He felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

His fingers trembled as he placed the phone back where he found it.

His first instinct was to wake Shubman.
To shake him, demand an explanation.

But what would he say?
What if Shubman told him it was true? That it had always been true?

I can’t… I can’t hear that right now.

His legs moved before his brain caught up.

Yash dressed in silence, pulling on his clothes with shaky hands, glancing one last time at the man sleeping so peacefully, oblivious to the storm that had just shattered Yash’s world.

And then he left.
Without a word.
Without a note.
Without anything.

Shubman woke about an hour later, groggy, his hand instinctively reaching out to the space beside him.

Cold sheets.

His heart skipped for a second—
Panic pricked at the edges of his chest.

But a quick glance at the clock calmed him.

Maybe Yash just rushed to training. Maybe he didn’t want to be late.

Yash was always early, always punctual.
Nothing unusual.

But still—something nagged at him.
A strange emptiness, like a lingering shadow he couldn’t shake.

He quickly got ready, his steps impatient as he made his way to the practice ground.

"I’ll find him there. He probably had to run."

When he arrived, Shubman’s eyes immediately scanned the field.

There. Yash. On the other side, casually stretching, talking to Ishan.

But Yash didn’t look at him. Not once.

Shubman’s brows furrowed.

Throughout the drills, Shubman kept trying to catch his eye.
Kept waiting for Yash to meet him halfway.
Kept looking for some secret glance, a smirk, a tiny flicker that the night before had meant something.

But Yash was cold. Distant.
Brushing past him like he was nothing more than a teammate.

"What the hell?"  Shubman’s chest tightened.

He tried to approach him between sets, but either the coach would call him back, or Yash would switch to another group at the perfect time.

It wasn’t accidental. Yash was actively avoiding him.

The entire morning, Shubman’s head spun with confusion.

"Did I do something?"
"Is he regretting last night?"
"Why won’t he talk to me?"

By lunch, his patience had worn dangerously thin.

Shubman grabbed his tray and immediately spotted Yash sitting with Ishan, laughing—almost too loudly, too easily—like he hadn’t just spent the night tangled in Shubman’s arms.

He stormed over, dropping his tray heavily onto their table.

Yash didn’t even flinch.

“You’re avoiding me,” Shubman said, voice low and sharp.

Yash didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m not.”

“You left without saying anything.”

“I had training.”

“Bullshit.” Shubman leaned in, his eyes burning. “Don’t lie to me.”

Yash finally looked up, but his expression was unreadable.
Calm. Empty. Detached.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Yash said flatly. “You looked peaceful.”

The sarcasm in his tone stung.

“You’re pissed off. Just tell me why,” Shubman pushed, his frustration spilling over. “You can’t just—”

Before he could finish, Ishan cut in with a grin, completely oblivious to the tension between them.

“Abe, kyun itna chipak raha hai? Teri toh booking ho chuki hai.”

(“Why are you hovering over him? You’re already booked.”)

Shubman blinked. “What?”

Ishan laughed, nudging Yash’s shoulder.
“Shaadi kar raha hai tu, sabko pata chal gaya. Everyone’s talking about it.”
(Marriage. Everyone knew.)

Shubman’s stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no, not now.

The news had spread.

His throat dried as his eyes darted around the room. Other teammates had started glancing his way, nodding in silent congratulations.

Some clapped him on the back, some threw teasing grins, some genuinely wished him well.

Shubman’s pulse hammered in his ears.

He saw the notification. That’s why he’s like this. That’s why he left.

He looked at Yash, who had gone completely still, staring at his plate, his hand clenching tightly around his fork.

His jaw was locked, his throat visibly struggling to swallow.

The congratulations kept coming, loud, suffocating.

Shubman wanted to scream.
Wanted to push them all away and tell Yash it wasn’t true. That he didn’t know. That this wasn’t his choice.

But before he could, Yash stood up quietly, his chair scraping the floor.

“Enjoy your lunch,” he said, his voice too calm, too distant. “And congratulations.”

He walked away without waiting for a reply.

Shubman’s hands trembled under the table, his chest caving in with the weight of Yash’s silent heartbreak.

"He thinks I lied."
"He thinks I played him. And now he won’t even look at me."

Around him, his teammates laughed and continued their meals, completely unaware that their words were burying him alive.

Shubman’s pulse roared in his ears.

I have to fix this.

But somewhere deep down, he knew—
This time, fixing it wouldn’t be easy.
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[End of Chapter 32]

Sorry for recently late posts!