The Right Wrong Number✨

♡ Chapter - 41 ♡

First, I dug into my drafts and pulled out a meme I'd made last week but hadn't dared to share. I'd been saving it for the right moment, one where his performance would deserve the celebration. But now? Now he needed reminding more than ever. It was his photo mid-sprint, hair slightly disheveled, determination stamped across his face. The caption I'd written: "Run Machine Rathee—fuelled by rotis, powered by willpower." A half-smile cracked through my panic as I hit 'post.' Silly. Stupid. But that was us. That was him.

Next, I opened a fan edit someone had DMed me earlier this morning. It was beautiful in that over-the-top, sparkly way fans had—Arjun's sixes stitched together in a collage, glitter filters bursting around the ball mid-air, bold red letters screaming: "OUR COMEBACK KING." I didn't even hesitate. Upload. Caption: "Kings have thrones. Ours has a crease." Post.

Another one blinked back at me from my gallery—a watercolor sketch a kid had tagged me in. It was clumsy and uneven, but my throat tightened looking at it. Arjun, bat raised high, smile almost crooked. Behind him, the crowd was just stick figures, but they all held hearts instead of flags. The innocence of it made my eyes sting. I uploaded it with the caption: "Sometimes, a kid's drawing says more than a headline ever could."

My thumb didn't stop. Another post. This one chaotic, cracked right out of context. A screenshot of his diving catch from yesterday—his jersey muddy, one elbow bent awkwardly into the grass. Someone had zoomed in and added text: "Proof he's grounded. Literally." I snorted, a choked sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, before posting it too. He needed laughter. God, he needed it.

Then I came across one that almost made me drop my phone. A side-by-side edit—one photo of him as a kid, grinning wide with a plastic bat, and one from last night, helmet raised, sweat on his forehead, eyes shining. Across it, someone had written: "From gali cricket to Ranji—always our boy." I stared at it longer than the rest, my chest squeezing with something too heavy to name. Because no matter how much the world judged him today, I knew that little boy was still inside him, wide-eyed, full of dreams, running on sheer love for the game. I posted it quietly, almost reverently, without any witty caption.

And then, my favorite. The simplest. A plain poster someone had uploaded with no glitter, no edits, just words on a sunset background: "Even the sun has bad days. Still, it shines. So will you, Arjun." My lips trembled as I typed: "And I'll keep waiting for the shine. Always." Click. Post.

By the time I'd finished, my hands were trembling so hard I almost dropped my phone. One tear—just one, hot and steady—slipped down my cheek before I could wipe it away with the back of my hand. But I wasn't alone. Not in this.

My notifications wouldn't stop buzzing. My DMs were overflowing, an endless stream of support. Messages from strangers, from his fans, from people who didn't even know him but had seen enough to believe in him.

"He'll rise again."
"One unlucky ball doesn't erase talent."
"Rotiboy forever."
"We're with him. Always."
"Tell him not to give up."

My throat ached reading them, but it wasn't from sadness. It was from relief. Because for every critic, for every headline waiting to write his downfall, there were hundreds of voices like these.

I posted screenshots of their words too. Flooded the story with them, one after another, tagging him in every single one. Because maybe when he scrolled later, when the noise of the world became too loud, he'd see this. Maybe when doubt clawed at his chest, when silence in the dressing room felt heavier than applause, he'd find this thread of faith.

Maybe when everyone else screamed failure, he'd hear this whisper of belief instead.

By the end of the day, Uttar Pradesh had fought. Every player had chipped in, small contributions knitting together into something steady. 342 runs. Not enough to erase the gap, but enough to say: We're still here. Still fighting.