Stuck Voyage of 20's

The early morning air was heavy with anticipation and the earthy scent of damp concrete. Dhruv stood at the edge of the basketball court, ankle wrapped tightly, shoes laced to perfection, jaw clenched harder than it needed to be.

Coach had cleared him for light drills today. Nothing aggressive, no cuts, no full-contact plays. Just ball-handling, shooting, and observing.

He hated observing.

Basketball wasn't a sport you could play from the sidelines. It was something that demanded your full body, full heart, and sometimes, more than you had. And right now, Dhruv felt like a bottle half-empty, pretending to be full.

"Warm up with some basic shooting. Five sets. No sprinting," the physio warned, handing him a resistance band for stretching.

Dhruv nodded. No complaints. He didn't want to be that guy who pushed too far, too fast, and broke something permanently. But it was hard. Every second not playing felt like slipping behind. Like watching someone else take your dream and run with it.

He picked up the ball and walked to the free throw line.

Bounce. Breathe. Release.

The ball swooshed through the net.

Another one. And another.

But it wasn't just about shooting. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was the voice in his head that whispered: What if you're not as fast anymore? What if you hesitate at the wrong moment? What if you're never picked again?

He had always been the fastest on the court. The most agile. The one who could think two steps ahead. But sports had no memory. One off-season, one bad injury, and someone younger, fresher, and hungrier took your place. The bench didn't care about history.

"Good form," Aryan called out, jogging past him. "But you look like you're going to war, not playing ball."

Dhruv offered a tight smile. "Feels like both."

---

The rest of the session passed in measured movements. Dhruv followed orders, kept his ankle safe, and resisted every instinct to run full speed.

When practice ended, he lingered back, grabbing a cold bottle of water and heading to the bleachers. The stadium was quiet now—just the echo of bouncing balls in the background, the shuffle of bags being packed, and one lonely pigeon stubbornly pecking at the court.

He pulled out his phone.

No new texts.

His fingers hovered over Avantika's name for a second, but he didn't press it. He didn't want to unload again. Not today. She had her own battles, and he respected that.

Instead, he opened his voice memo app.

Voice Memo: "Self-Talk – 5th July"

> "Alright. So. Dhruv. You're 21. You've trained for this since you were 12. You've played through cramps, fever, heartbreak, and brutal PT drills. And now… an ankle twist is freaking you out more than anything. Why?"

> "Because you're scared that your body isn't invincible. Because you're scared they'll stop noticing you. Because, for the first time, you can't control how quickly you bounce back."

> "But hey—wasn't this the same body that won you state finals? The same mind that made you the captain back in school? You're more than just speed. You're your instinct. Your vision. Your grit."

Later that evening, he sat with Coach Dev, a man known more for his harsh bluntness than any motivational speeches. But today, his tone was different.

"You've got one more week to prove you're game-fit," Coach said, flipping through player rosters. "I know your mind wants it. But does your body agree?"

Dhruv looked him in the eye. "I'm getting there. One day at a time."

Coach nodded. "Good. I'm watching."

It wasn't a compliment, but it wasn't criticism either. It was a lifeline. A chance.

---

That night, Dhruv lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan. The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the streetlamp leaking through his window.

His ankle throbbed lightly—a dull reminder of his limits. But beneath the pain, something else stirred. Hunger. Fire.

Not for victory. But for presence. He didn't want to win just to win. He wanted to be on that court to feel alive again. To lose himself in the rhythm of passing, defending, scoring. To sweat out the fear. To earn his space again.

His phone buzzed.

Avantika: I read a quote today. "You can't rush healing. But you can walk with it." Thought of you.

He smiled.

Dhruv: You're officially my part-time therapist.

Avantika: And you're officially my favorite workaholic patient.

He stared at the screen for a while, thumbs tapping without sending anything.

Then he finally wrote:

Dhruv: Next week, I'm either playing my heart out or sitting with ice packs and cheering like it's the World Cup. Either way, I'll be there. I owe that to myself.

---

The next morning, Dhruv was on the court again. This time, he asked the physio for 10 minutes of supervised movement drills. Just light defensive slides, some pivot steps, change of direction.

The physio looked at him like a cautious parent, but finally nodded.

Dhruv moved—cautiously at first, then a little quicker.

His ankle held.

His instincts kicked in.

For the first time in days, his body and mind were on the same page.

Aryan noticed. "Looks like Captain Dhruv is back."

"Not yet," Dhruv replied. "But he's close."

And that was enough.