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The room was clouded with vapors and Shubman stood beneath the shower head pouring scalding hot water over him. He turned the faucet to stop the water and ran his hands over his face and then through his hair, letting the excess water drain out and run down his back. He grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist as he stepped out of the glassed shower. The cold air made the hair on his body stand and when he stepped onto the cold bathroom tile from the rug, a shiver ran down his spine. He let out a trembling breath, put on his slippers and hurried into his bedroom, letting his body adjust to the temperature, where the thermostat had kept the bedroom comparatively warmer.
Earlier when he had woken up with a heavy head, it took him a while to orient himself to reality and to all his feelings, and soon everything came back flooding down on him. He didn’t know what to do about it or how to help himself, but he knew that he needed to get out of the bed and a shower felt like the only thing that could've helped him with the uneasiness he had been feeling or it was the only thing he had at his disposal. It worked for a short while when all he could feel was the heat over his skin which although burning was nearly comforting like warmth over sore muscles. But then it came back. Again. The heaviness felt like iron weights had been put over his chest. It made breathing so much harder for him and it kept getting worse like the gravity was trying to pull these weights to itself, breaking his ribs, through his chest and his heart. Shubman shut his eyes for a few fleeting seconds, breathing out, trying to not choke under the weight that had grown only heavier since last night. He didn’t want to think about the evening, or the conversation, but he couldn't help it. It had taken over his heart and mind like a painful disease he can't ever be cured of.
Shubman opened his wardrobe and was about to pick whatever reached his hand first when his eyes fell on one specific stack of clothes. He paused before taking a step closer and touched the shirt on the top, his fingers lightly grazed over the fabric. Shubman smiled softly but soon the images from yesterday, from the dinner party, made him sharply inhale. Maybe it was his brain playing tricks on him but he was pretty sure that the pain he was feeling felt physically real, almost tangible.
After looking at it for a few more moments, Shubman pulled out a black sweatshirt from the bottom of the stack. It's from last winter. He brought the sweatshirt closer to his face and lightly rubbed his cheek against it and it felt warm like it still had remnants of all the sunlight it had soaked up that day just like it had soaked up the scent of his body.
Shubman collected the other pieces of clothing and shut the wardrobe close. He put everything on his bed and… Everything felt hard, his own body was feeling too heavy for him to carry around. He had gotten himself into this sweet mess, one that he had created for himself and there was not a single person he could've blamed for it. Blaming is easier. But all he had was himself, to complain to, to complain about.
Shubman got into a pair of gray sweatpants and stood in front of the full-length mirror in his room, staring at his own half-naked reflection. He took a glance at the table on the right with all his skincare products. It felt like too much effort, his own needs and necessities were feeling like a burden to him. So, he stared at his own flushed raw skin with a strange uneasiness and dislike.
How could two people look so picture perfect? One look and you know they belong together. Shubman had laughed, sung, drank and danced. He did everything he was supposed to do at a party. To pretend everything was alright, to convince others, to convince himself that he didn't care. But how could he have not cared? So, he tried to convince himself that he was happy for him, happy for them. Because he was his best friend. But he had to watch his best friend get uneasy while sitting beside him impatiently waiting for her. He had to watch his eyes light up at the very sight of her and the way he looked at her in a room full of people. He had to watch the smile he tried to contain when he held her beautiful hand in his.
Shubman looked down, he outstretched his fingers as he stared at his own hands and palms, scrutinizing them. Everything felt wrong. The manicured nails were clipped short and the anxiously peeled skin around a few of them burnt every time he washed his hands with soap. The same fingers which were quickly held by him during the dinner when Shubman hissed in pain when something salty touched the exposed skin, It made the burning stop immediately as if that was all the medicine Shubman ever needed. He looked at Shubman with an expression that was equal parts of annoyance and concern while he grabbed tissues for him with his other hand. Shubman kept on looking at his veiny hands, empty fingers, little wounds. It was definitely not a pretty sight.
He shut his eyes for a moment again, breathing felt like a task. There wasn’t enough air in the room, maybe, he gulped. But this was how he had felt on the ride back home last night when he rolled down the window and the cold biting wind scraped his skin. The amount of air didn't matter when he felt like someone was gradually turning the knob on his supply of oxygen. Shubman was sure this wasn't what happiness was supposed to feel like. Like someone was knocking the breath out of you. But… he was happy… he was happy… or this was what he kept repeating to himself. He was supposed to be happy. He wanted to be happy. For his best friend. For his… not his.
For Ishan.
Shubman took a step closer to the mirror and touched his cheek with one hand, his skin despite being smooth lacked a certain softness, and his toughened fingertips from all that cricket added nothing. Although better after the hot shower, the redness to his skin due to the cold winds hadn’t subdued completely. As if him already breaking on the inside wasn’t enough and the winter was trying to make sure that his frail exterior was broken too. He pressed harder so that his nail left a sublime mark that soon disappeared as his fingers traveled down from his cheekbone to his jaw.
Months ago, perhaps more than a year now— Shubman didn’t have the capacity to recall the where or the why because it’s not like he met him twice a year, it’s hard to keep a record— Shubman was sitting with her while Ishan went to take a call. What started with a few polite and a bit awkward exchanges of smiles, soon turned into a friendly chat and then to a gossip and complaint session about their favorite person with shared laughs and opinions.
Shubman smiled to himself, looking down, recalling the bittersweet memory with a sort of fondness that felt ironic to himself, and a betrayal to his own feelings. He looked up at his own reflection, the smile on his face and…
“I am glad he has you. I don’t know if you know, but you mean a lot to him,” she had once said, putting a hand over Shubman’s and giving it a squeeze. For a moment, Shubman felt like he was being patronized and he didn’t want any of it. Shubman knew. There wasn’t a thing he needed to hear from her that he already didn’t know. He had always known. It didn’t matter. He would never mean as much as she did. He would never be her. But he looked up at her and she smiled and… it was kind. It was sweet in a way that there couldn’t have been any malice behind it. It made Shubman’s stomach churn in disgust of his own vile feelings. So, he returned her the smile, and in that moment he perhaps meant it too when he said, “And I am glad he has you,” and when he didn’t add, “I am glad he is being loved even if it is not by me.”
Shubman’s fingertip lingered over that indentation on his cheek, now they reminded him of her, the only thing he will ever share with her. It made so much sense now why Ishan used to always say, during the early days of when they had first met, “You have a very sweet smile,” to him. The smile slowly died as fingers reached his jaw and the light stubble pricked against his fingertips. You mean a lot to him. Shubman tightened his jaw. A lot, but never enough.
“Hello? Shubman? Are you fine? Is everything okay?” Shubman’s manager cum friend had called him at 3 in the morning. Shubman wasn’t asleep, still on his playstation, trying to keep himself distracted. He put the controller aside pausing the game.
“Yes? Are you okay? It’s 3 a.m..” Shubman questioned, confused.
“Yeah…” he sighed over the call, sounding tired and sleepy, “Ishan called. He asked me to check on you urgently. He was sounding quite worried.”
“Oh…” Shubman shut his eyes, this wasn’t his intention, “Why? What did he say?”
“He was just worried about you… Uhm… Did you not wish him at midnight for his birthday?” he asked.
“Um… No,” Shubman replied, voice ridden with guilt. He wasn’t sure of what he was trying to achieve by doing that. He had put Ishan in a position where he had to call his manager, in a position where he couldn’t have called him. How could he have called Shubman to ask why he hadn't wished him yet?
That incident was perhaps the cornerstone of this distance that had been slowly building between them, because if everything was the same, Ishan would have called him. Even if it was to throw a few curses at him or simply to complain. But he didn’t.
“Strange. Why? Even I texted him.”
“I thought he’d be busy with…” he stammered, trying to find the right words, “wi… with his loved ones… family,” Shubman replied, it was mostly true, “I did not want to disturb him,” he said, his voice low and dejected, realizing how he had made Ishan worried on his day.
Shubman wasn’t going to make Ishan’s birthday about himself, but sometimes it was just hard to get hit with the realization again and again, which even after having accepted a long time ago still hurt the same, that he will never be his first priority or he wasn’t there with him now or that Ishan already had someone and he wasn’t really needed in his life. Not anymore.
All Shubman heard was a laugh on the other end as if he had said something too absurd to be true. “You have disturbed him a lot actually. Just call him, Shubman,” his manager said and it sounded like advice.
“Please tell him that I fell asleep or… make any excuse. I’ll speak to him later,” Shubman said quietly and hung up. He sat and stared at the screen. Was Ishan still expecting Shubman to be the first person to wish him? To still play the stupid game of being the first one to wish the other? He grimaced, registering the reality of his own actions because it would have been a lie to say that he was completely oblivious to what he was doing or what it would’ve meant to Ishan. Did he willingly want to hurt Ishan? But he never held enough power over him to hurt him. The void that Ishan’s absence created in Shubman’s life was way too big to be compared to the one he created in Ishan’s life; while Shubman’s felt like all consuming, something he could drown in, Ishan could simply push his aside or fill it with other people. Ishan would never know what it's like for Shubman.
Was it a good thing that even if he wanted, which he never would, he won't ever be able to hurt Ishan the same way in which he unknowingly hurts him? Shubman didn’t try to get rid of the heartache that he was still getting used to back then. It pained him, but he put his phone away and picked up the controller again. The controller felt too heavy in his hands. So he lied down and kept staring at the ceiling until the walls of his bedroom were caving down on him and he felt like he was sinking into the bed.
Shubman’s eyes traveled down his body being reflected in the mirror, staring at the toned hard muscles of his shoulders and arms, empty as usual, at his chest and the abs, there wasn’t even a slight of tenderness in this hard shell of a man that he carried around. What was the point of being the object of desire of thousands of women and men alike when the only person who could read your soul didn’t want you? He rubbed the heels of his palm hard against the middle of his chest, over his heart, seeking any sort of comfort or ease. His body felt like it lacked even a hint of warmth, his heart felt frozen and brittle. The rubbing did nothing, the feeling kept on clawing at his chest like a hungry beast, his body didn’t feel real to him, he didn’t feel real to himself as if all of him was concentrated at one single point in his chest and it was too much to bear.
Later in the night when everyone was busy, chatting and laughing over the drinks, Ishan had walked to him from the other end of the room, skimming through the crowd, and asked Shubman to come with him. Shubman did. It wasn’t anything new. Whenever Shubman met him at parties, until he had had some time alone with him, it felt incomplete.
Shubman stopped when they were at a relatively quieter space, but Ishan turned to him and said, “Not here. Kuchh kaam hai.” Shubman nodded and followed him into the bathroom where Ishan locked the door from the inside before turning to him. The noise of the party died somewhere far away and it was mostly quiet with just two of them.
Ishan smiled fondly, arching his eyebrows. Shubman returned his smile, “Aur?”
Ishan shook his head, “Nothing. Just…” he gulped and Shubman sensed a nervousness laced in voice.
“Ghar wapas kab jaa raha hai?” Ishan asked.
“Um…” Shubman pouted as he thought, still unsure, “I am thinking of spending new years with family. So, I guess around Christmas.”
Ishan looked down, nodding, “I see,” he replied.
“What about you?” Shubman asked.
Ishan tilted his head slightly, looking up at him, “Not sure yet,” he said and Shubman kept staring into his eyes while his heart did this funny thing of not knowing how to beat properly like it always did, “I think, now that you won’t be here, I should probably go to Patna too.”
“Hmm.”
Ishan exhaled nervously while his hands rubbed up and down his own trousers and his gaze wavered, avoiding contact.
“What's up with you, Ish?” Shubman asked, a bit concerned.
Ishan gulped, “I… I wanted to show you something,” he said, and his hands trembled when he shuffled through his pockets searching for something, and when his hand had found what it was looking for in his left coat pocket, he paused and shut his eyes for a second.
“I don't know why… but…” he took his hand out, something clutched between his fist in the space between them, “I bought this,” his voice shook when he said that.
Shubman watched, like a spectator of a nightmare he could do nothing about but watch. It wasn't supposed to be a bad dream, but it felt like one. He knew what was about to happen, but he watched quietly as Ishan unfolded his shaky fingers and there was a small black velvety box in his palm. Ishan opened it.
Shubman was expecting it. He had, or he had believed like a fool that he had, prepared himself for this moment long ago, but it had all been in vain when his world stopped moving and ceased to exist the very second he saw the glimmering diamond looking pretty in his best friend's even prettier palm.
Shubman’s eyes stayed fixed on it for quite a while, begging his defenses to keep up for a bit longer, begging his eyes to not fail him this one time as the corners started burning. He took a glance up at Ishan and the silence lingered between them while he held his gaze. The hope and expectation, the excitement brimming at the edges of Ishan’s eyes completely crushed Shubman's heart.
“Are…” Shubman paused, the words felt like they were twisting his windpipe as he tried to force them through the lump forming in his throat, “Are you going to…?” he gently raised his eyebrows.
Ishan smiled when he shook his head, he seemed way too excited, way too anxious to speak, the smile on his face was a bit shy, a bit embarrassed and a bit sweet like always, “No… no,” he shook his head again and laughed softly, “I mean— not yet. I don’t think anytime soon. It was a stupid impulsive decision,” Ishan blabbered on, and Shubman watched the glimmer in his eyes, “I haven’t told anyone else about it yet. I don’t know why I did it, Shub. I couldn’t help it. I think I—”
Shubman took a step closer to Ishan and without any second thought he wrapped his arms around Ishan, making him stop mid-sentence, pulling him to himself, holding him tighter and closer than he had ever done before. He shut his eyes. He wanted to be happy for him, but how could he have done that when he felt like something that belonged to him, something so dear to him was being taken away from him? So, he held him like he would vanish if he let him go. He knew he would have time to be happy, he would have time to curse himself for his selfish desires, but in that moment he felt like a part of him was being torn apart from his body and he couldn’t care about anything else. So, he held him, grasping onto him the way a dying man would grasp at a straw, like he was his only lifeline, like… he was doing it for the last time.
Ishan hadn’t held him back, perhaps too shocked or perhaps too crushed between Shubman’s arms to have used his own. Shubman couldn’t have cared any less. He was doing it for himself. When Shubman began to gradually break apart from him, he had decided he would just walk out without looking at Ishan, but when he parted away and stood before him, he couldn’t. He took a step away from him and stayed. Ishan’s face was a shade of crimson. Shubman noticed the subtle furrow between his brows, the questioning look and the odd anger-like expression he was trying to hide while they stared at each other with glistening tear-lined eyes. No one said a word. For a fearful moment, Shubman felt like he was being seen through and he hated it. So, he smiled, it was the most he could have offered Ishan. Ishan looked away, putting the ring away in his pocket and Shubman turned to take a glance in the mirror behind himself before grabbing the door handle.
“Shu— Shubman,” Ishan said softly.
Shubman paused, gulped and turned to him again. He didn’t want to stay with him any longer there. It was getting suffocating. His façade would break and Ishan deserved better than that. He deserved a better friend. He kept staring at Ishan who took a step closer to him and the next one a bit more hesitantly. He gently pushed his arms under Shubman’s arms and put his head on his shoulder before wrapping them around Shubman and holding him in a tight embrace. Shubman shut his eyes at the comfort and warmth he felt, perhaps for the last time, while on the inside he felt like a fraudster. Shubman lowered his head, fitting into Ishan’s embrace like he belonged there and he held him back, not with the previous possessiveness but with all the tenderness his heart carried for him.
Ishan’s hand traversed up and caressed the back of his head, “Tu khush hai na, Shub?” he asked, but his voice was careful as if he didn’t want to know the answer.
Shubman shut his eyes tightly, a tear trickled down his eye, “Haan. Ye bhi koi puchhne wali baat hai? How could I not be?” he replied and he meant it with all the love he had ever known. Ishan was there to share his happiness, his joy, his celebration with him, his new beginnings while Shubman had just started mourning an end. But right then in between his arms, Shubman knew that happiness would come too. How could he not be happy with him in his happiness? Even if it felt hard now, he would still be the happiest friend when the day comes. Ishan meant him more than the sore loser of a mourning lover in him ever could. He would be the happiest best man any groom has ever had. Shubman felt Ishan’s hand clutch his shirt tighter, clinging into the hug like he always did. Shubman lowered himself for him.
A while later, Ishan cleared his throat and this time he sounded strict and worried, “Stop trying to find happiness in these temporary hook-ups, Shubi,” he said, gently, his hand still caressing Shubman's head as if consoling a child, “Find someone you love. Please?” Ishan's fingertips brushed Shubman's ear and Shubman wanted to spend a lifetime there. He didn’t want anything more, but maybe that was too much to ask for too. Shubman helplessly smiled upon hearing the sentence. Find someone you love. As if that was supposed to be a solution. Finding was never the hard part, it was everything that came after that. Shubman laughed gently. Only if you knew. It was a funny thing to have come out of Ishan's mouth.
“Then be a good friend and find someone for me,” Shubman said and nudged his face closer to Ishan's neck. He didn't want to be a part of the world outside of his embrace, he did not want to open his eyes to a reality where Ishan wasn't going to be a part of his life.
“As if I haven’t tried,” Ishan complained, “All these years and you never even tell me what kind of person you want.”
“I guess…,” Shubman paused for a moment, a little truth veiled as a little joke couldn't hurt and did it even matter if it wasn't veiled enough? “Someone like you, Ishu,” he said and what followed was a prolonged silence and just as Shubman was about to start regretting saying that Ishan spoke.
“Oh?” Ishan scoffed, sounding pretty offended, “Humesha se kehta raha, “tujhse kaun pagal shaadi karega?” and now you are pulling this, huh?”
“Chhod na…” Shubman said, in an almost whisper, quietly smiling to himself, “shayad main hi pagal tha,” he said and hoped that he was the only person who had heard but Ishan was still too close to have missed that so he laughed when he added, “I mean— I am going to have a chat with her to ask what did she see in you?! ”
“Hatt saale,” Ishan hit him on his back, laughing.
“Ouch,” Shubman winced and loosened his arms around Ishan. He didn’t hesitate or linger a moment longer, denying his heart even a little indulgence. It hurt, he hated himself for it and then it hurt even more. He backed away, wiping the traces of tears while Ishan did the same, wiping the corners of his eye with a knuckle, and the other side of face with a palm. They didn’t need to talk about it. He hadn’t felt this far away or distant from Ishan before. Despite their closeness and shared tears, Shubman felt their tears were for completely different reasons and he couldn’t have had Ishan know his. Shubman couldn’t stand before him anymore, weighed down by guilt. Any other day, he would have laughed about it, to ease the atmosphere, but the corners of his lips started tugging downwards again the moment he took another look at Ishan. His best friend. Always. But never more. He inhaled deeply through his nose and felt like a traitor.
“Good Luck, Ish,” Shubman said with a soft smile and walked out. He didn’t wait for Ishan. He spent the rest of the evening half-alive and whenever possible, away from Ishan. He sat back and watched quietly for as long as he could, calm and cool on the outside while his insides were squirming in hopeless pain, his claws trying to desperately grab onto something only to pass through it like a specter, a ghost made up of memories, of deluded dreams, of hopes hoped in moments of pure hopelessness, of nothing real. The longer he stayed, the longer he forced smiles, the longer he watched the love he couldn’t bring himself to rejoice, the one everyone else adored and felt was perfect and beautiful, he felt like he was fading into the background of a life that he had felt he had a right upon too. And nobody cared.
Shubman left early. It was past 1 a.m but the still buzzing party hadn’t seemed to be ending anytime soon yet. Everything hurt, but it was freezing outside and the cold was numbing or so he had thought before he had to stop driving mid-way, park the car on the side when his brimmed eyes started tearing without any restraint and it became hard to see and harder to breathe. He clutched onto the steering wheel as his shoulders shuddered. Maybe it wasn’t cold enough. No amount of cold, or freezing could have numbed the pain as long as the heart inside his chest was still beating.
Is that what people meant when they said sometimes your body starts rejecting your own organs as if they were a foreign object? Why else would his own heart act like a betrayer and not beat properly, why else would it keep hurting him as if it belonged to someone else more than it did to him?
Shubman grabbed the towel again and rubbed it against his short dark hair, soaking all the excess water and wiping the dripped trails of water on his body. He put it on the stool by the mirror and picked up the black sweatshirt. Ishan had called him when it was past 4 a.m. It had taken hours for him to notice Shubman’s absence. It hadn't bothered Shubman much. Shubman didn’t try to reason it or find an excuse for him this time. Finally, it felt like he didn’t need to anymore. Shubman had ignored the call while he tapped the cigarette ash off his balcony railing, the whiskey kept him warm. It smelled like him, it smelled like them. He smelled like him, of him, of all the after parties, of all the hotel room shenanigans. Neither of them were big on smoking, but it smelled of all those drunken nights, of the single shared cigarette over a shared glass of whiskey. When Shubman shut his eyes, he could almost hear all those obnoxiously pretentious philosophical conversations, talks of future and dreams, silly giggles and gossips, and he could visualize the way his eyes used to always end up lingering on Ishan's lips when he talked, so to distract himself and keep himself busy Shubman would take the cigarette from between his fingers to hold it for him so he won’t end up sprinkling the ash over himself when he moved his hands, and gently hold the hand with which he held the glass with his other hand to make sure he didn't drop it only to watch him and hear him talk uninterrupted.
The glass was the only thing he could save from being shattered.
Shubman held the sweatshirt closer to his face, the tip of his nose brushed against it before he buried his face into it, sniffing, inhaling the scent which made his heart race. He brought it in front of him and stared at it for a moment before deciding to put it on. The warm fleece on the inside made his skin tingle when he put his arms into it. It was soft and warm. He pulled it over his head and made a tired waste attempt to fix his disheveled hair. The corners of his eyes had already turned red, but now standing before his own reflection, he felt undeserving of his own emotions, but the self-hate didn’t make the pain hurt any less. He parted his lips to breathe as his heart stuttered and a breath hitched. The cuffs of the sweatshirt didn’t reach to cover his wrists properly, leaving them cold, and if he lifted his arms even slightly up, it ran up his torso. Shubman tightened his lips, staring at the reflection in front of himself and he felt dissociated from it as if it were of someone else. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. It hurt, it hurt and then it hurt some more. Nothing helped. Shubman reached between his shoulder blades with one hand and clutched the fabric in between his fist. It wasn’t his. His shirts in his wardrobe meant nothing. Him wearing his clothes meant nothing when it were her sandals lying mixed with his shoes at his doorstep.
It was stupid. Everything was. He was being pathetic. Shubman’s breath shivered and his chest tightened with reluctance but he pulled the sweatshirt off, ripping himself of the only sense of warmth he could feel. He clutched it between both of his hands and for a moment there he did want to throw it away but he held it until the anger passed through him. He didn’t want the pain to distort reality or his love. There wasn't any hatred. He didn’t blame anyone but his own heart. Shubman shut his eyes and held the piece of clothing close to his heart between his arms. It hurt, hell, it felt like someone was gnawing and clawing his heart out of his chest, but he also knew that he wasn’t going to let it turn something so beautiful into something sour and bitter. He needed to be happy, for himself, and for him. So, he tried to not feel anything, knowing well that doing that would ruin him worse later.
Shubman neatly folded the sweatshirt, walked back to his wardrobe, and put it back in the same stack. He then picked up the stack of clothes, and a couple hanging shirts, and kneeled on the floor. He sat back on his heels and pulled open the bottommost drawer and arranged the clothes in it to keep them out of his own reach. It would be easier to not see them every time he opened his wardrobe. He sniveled and blinked out the tears that had been gathering along his eyeline for a while, his chin quivered. With his head hanging low, quiet tears dripping over the clothes, completely dejected, getting back up felt too hard. The only person who could have helped him was the reason behind it all. Shubman cursed himself some more as if he hadn’t done that enough already. He couldn’t do this to Ishan, but he felt so helpless. Shubman took a few deep breaths, still sniveling like an inconsolable child when he started wiping his tears with the back of his hand. If he wanted to be happy for him, he had to be hopeful for himself. Get up, this isn’t the end of the world. Why are you crying like you didn’t always know this was going to happen? You have no right to get upset over something that you knew was never possible. It will get better… All you are feeling is momentary. Come on, get up! He kept repeating things to himself in his head. He gently pushed the drawer closer and pinched his nose bridge, and his lips trembled as he tried to not break down again. He exhaled and forced himself to get up. He wiped the remaining traces of tears from his eyes.
Shubman stayed idle, cold, staring at nothing until he knew what he needed. So, he started searching his wardrobe without caring about the mess he made. He needed love. A love that was all his, no terms and conditions applied, a love that had always kept him warm and protected. He searched for the old blue sweater, faded and frayed, one that his dad had gotten for him when he was seventeen. And like all dads, he didn’t know his size, so like every parent, he got him a size that was too big for him. It fit him back then although a bit too loose, it fits him now almost perfectly and it will always fit him. After a minute or two of searching, Shubman found the sweater and he gently smiled. It was his and no one else’s. No one could take this away from him ever. It was his only.
He wanted to go home and since there were no more matches scheduled, he didn’t have to wait for Christmas. He could cancel a couple of meetings or postpone them. He picked up his phone but stopped mid-way from calling his home. He didn’t trust himself enough and his parents were almost always able to figure out if something was wrong from his voice. What would he even say or explain to them? But he needed to talk to someone, it didn’t matter about what. He needed to feel like he wasn’t all alone. So, he took the less riskier option and searched up his sister’s name.
“Hello, di?”
“Finally you got the time to call me, huh?” the voice said accusingly on the other end.
Shubman smiled, the comfort he felt from the voice was overwhelming, “Come on. Don’t start now,” he said, complaining but gently, his voice lacking the usual playfulness despite all the effort, finding it hard to keep up his tough exterior in front of the person he knew he was allowed to be weak with.