When Fire Meets Ice
After days of silence and missed classes, Anna finally had enough.
"You can't hide forever, Anaya," she said, gently brushing Anaya's hair back as they sat on the bed. "People are starting to ask. Just… try. Come back, even if it's only half of you."
Anaya didn't respond. Her voice had faded days ago. But later that morning, she got up. Wore the first outfit she touched. Tied her hair into a low ponytail.
And walked into college like a shadow.
No smiles.
No eye contact.
No life.
She skipped lunch. Avoided group chats. Her friends Mira, Karan, Nyra—everyone reached out.
Mira even left voicemails.
> "Anaya, I know you're hurting. But please… don't let this pain define you. You're more than what he did."
But how could she move on so quickly?
How do you let go of someone who still lives in every heartbeat?
Across campus, Aarav was barely himself. His notes were untouched. The library felt like a stranger's home.
He sat in classes but never listened. Ate barely two bites at meals. His once easy smile? Gone.
He stopped hanging out with the group. Stopped responding to texts.
Nitya tried—offering notes, jokes, snacks, even small gifts.
But he'd just stare ahead, blank.
> "Aarav… please, talk to me."
"I'm tired."
That's all he ever said.
She seethed but hid it behind a soft voice.
> He'll come around. He has to.
One lazy afternoon, when the halls were nearly empty and the sun dipped low, casting warm gold across the pavement, Anaya wandered.
She wasn't thinking.
Her feet moved on their own.
Away from classrooms, away from noise, away from memories.
And then, she found herself standing in front of the old basketball court behind the sports block.
The moment she stepped inside, something shifted.
The faint scent of rubber and sweat. The echo of a ball hitting the floor. The worn-out bleachers.
All of it wrapped around her like a familiar memory she didn't know she missed.
She climbed the steps quietly and sat, hugging her knees to her chest. The court was empty, but her heart beat faster—like it remembered.
Basketball.
The only thing that ever made her feel in control.
Back in school, she used to dominate the court. Every dribble was a release. Every basket, a punch thrown at the chaos of life.
She loved it.
But then studies took over, expectations rose, and her parents told her it was a distraction she couldn't afford.
She obeyed. And a part of her quietly withered.
But now…
Now no one was stopping her.
No one cared.
She could play.
She could breathe.
She walked down, picked up a ball from the corner, and started dribbling slowly.
Then faster.
Then harder.
With each shot she took, something inside her loosened.
Her pain.
Her anger.
Her heartbreak.
Basketball didn't ask questions. It didn't lie. It didn't leave.
And so, she decided to come back.
Again and again.
Because in a world where everything else hurt…
The court felt like home.
> That's when she heard it.
"Hey, ghost girl."
She turned.
Ishaan stood at midcourt, spinning a ball on his finger — tall, lean, dressed in black joggers and a sleeveless jersey that showed off a toned, athletic build. There was something effortless about him, like he didn't try to be cool… he just was. Messy hair, sharp jawline, and eyes that looked like they could read a lie before you even spoke it.
His smirk was the kind that made girls blush and teachers sigh. Trouble, but the kind you wanted to fall into.
> "If you're gonna sit there like a ghost, at least don't stare like one."
Anaya blinked, her lips parting with disbelief.
> "Not everyone's faking a smile just to look strong," she shot back, her voice cold.
The ball stopped spinning. His smirk faltered for a second — not used to being challenged.
But instead of getting annoyed, he looked amused.
> "Touché," he muttered, watching her stand and walk away.
She left without a backward glance.
But Ishaan watched her go, one brow raised, curiosity lit in his eyes.
> "Interesting," he whispered to no one.
Next day He saw her again.
Ishaan had come by for solo practice, expecting the place to be empty. But there she was—already on the court, her movements sharp, angry, beautiful.
He didn't interrupt. Just stood by the side, unnoticed, watching.
She was different from the rest.
Not polished. Not flashy.
But raw. Focused. Fierce.
She played like she was chasing something she couldn't name.
The next day, he came early. On purpose.
She was already there.
Again, he didn't say a word.
He just sat on the far end, pretending to scroll through his phone while stealing glances. Admiring her in silence.
By the third day, it had become routine.
Two players. One court. Zero words.
She didn't acknowledge him. He didn't push.
But the silence between them began to feel less like distance… and more like understanding.
He started noticing things.
The way she tied her hair.
The way she whispered to herself before the first dribble.
The way she lined up her shoes like she was trying to hold something together.
Sometimes, she'd shoot until she collapsed on the bench, breathless. He'd glance at her—but never speak.
Until the fifth day.
She made a clean jump shot and the ball bounced toward him.
She didn't look, but she didn't stop it either.
He picked it up.
And finally said:
> "Where'd you learn that crossover?"
She glanced at him, eyes cool and unreadable.
> "Does it matter?"
> "Yeah," he replied, dribbling up beside her. "Because you just outplayed half my team."
She tossed the ball back to him.
> "Lucky shot."
He caught it, smirking.
> "Wanna bet?"
They played.
She was fierce, quick, angry.
She beat him. Barely.
He sat on the floor, breathless and grinning.
> "Okay, ghost girl. Train me."
She rolled her eyes.
> "Not interested."
> "Come on. You've got fire. Skills. You're wasting it."
> "I'm not here for you."
He stood, smile fading slightly.
> "I get that."
She turned to leave.
> "You play like you're trying to forget something," he said softly.
She paused.
Didn't look back. Didn't answer.
But her steps slowed as she walked away.
And for the first time in days…
She wasn't completely numb.