❝ 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔'𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 - 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒈𝒍𝒚. ❞
•••
Sometimes love doesn't knock on the right door. Sometimes it slips in through a misdial, a l...
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Mira's POV-
There was something oddly satisfying about the way a freshly opened packet of chips crackled. The satisfying crinkle, the salty smell that burst out first, and the inevitable tug-of-war with the corner that refused to rip open cleanly.
I was in the middle of exactly that battle.
Popcorn bowl tucked between my elbow and hip, a half-empty Pepsi bottle clutched dangerously under my chin, and my phone already buffering the scorecard on one side. It was a multitasking miracle that I didn't trip over my own feet and die of snack-induced embarrassment right then and there.
The TV volume was obnoxiously loud—intentionally so. It echoed through the small Mumbai villa, bouncing off the gallery windows and kitchen tiles like an overenthusiastic commentator. The TV sat proudly in my room, but I was in the hall because, well... snacks deserved space, and I was not spilling Pepsi over my blanket again.
With my tongue now trying to dislodge a rogue piece of chips stuck between my teeth, I fished inside my tote for my lip balm. Yes, lip balm in this economy of tension. Don't ask why. My hands were doing one thing, my brain another, and my ears were trained on only one sound: the match commentary.
It was Day Two. Ranji Trophy. Gujarat vs Uttar Pradesh.
And there he was.
I leaned back awkwardly, my neck barely managing to stretch enough to peek at the screen from the living room. My hair fell into my eyes, the chips packet rustled against my face, and the remote dug into my rib, but I didn't care.
Arjun Rathee had just walked back onto the pitch.
God, he looked calm. My Arjun.
Cool. Composed. Classic.
Even from here, the camera zoom catching just his walk to the crease, I could feel it—that stillness. That quiet determination. There was something about the way he adjusted his gloves and glanced at the field that made your heart settle and skip a beat at the same time.
I blinked and leaned a little more, squinting toward the screen.
I rolled my eyes and flopped sideways on the couch. My phone buzzed—three unread messages on the fan club group. Ofcourse, I had to make an instagram channel. duhh💅🏻
They were showing posters now. A few from the crowd waving hand-painted ones—some misspelled versions of "Arjun Rathee zindabad!" and one very chaotic poster that read:
"ROTIBOY > RUNBOY" with a very questionable sketch of him eating something that was maybe a paratha.
I laughed.
My Rotiboy. He'd hate that name if he knew I was the reason it had gone viral.
