

The stadium is alive in a way that only cricket stadiums in India can be.


The stadium is alive in a way that only cricket stadiums in India can be.
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Niyati’s leaning against the railing, talking the way she does when she doesn’t want to think too hard. Yuvraj’s closer than necessary, listening instead of interrupting, which already makes her uneasy. She glances at him, catches that quiet focus in his eyes, and laughs to cover it. The words slip out easily, practiced and safe. “Careful,” she says lightly. “People might think you like me.” She expects the usual tease, the familiar deflection. Instead, he turns toward her, expression calm but serious, as if the joke never existed at all. “Let them.”



Meera turned her face away from him with a small, stubborn pout, arms folding across her chest as if that alone could hold her ground. It would have looked almost adorable if her eyes weren’t bright with frustration. She hated how he stood there, composed as ever, watching her like she was a storm he had already calculated the path of. The argument had thinned into silence, but the tension still pulsed between them, warm and restless. “I hate you,” she muttered, not loudly, but with enough weight to mean something. Advay didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t chase the words or try to soften them. He simply studied her profile, the way her lower lip pushed out slightly when she was upset, the way she refused to look at him as if eye contact would betray her. Then he stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough that his presence felt intentional. “I wish I could hate you too,” he said quietly. She blinked, her pout faltering as she slowly turned back toward him. “It would be easier,” he continued softly. “If I could.”

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