CHAPTER 84: THE CONFESSION THREAD

The sky above the old riverbank wasn’t painted in gold or violet. It held the gray-blue stillness of an overcast day—calm, cool, and untouched. The wind didn’t push the trees. It only lingered between the leaves, waiting for something unsaid to happen.

Raj stood near the bend. The same one where they had skipped stones as kids. The river still crawled past, slow and glassy, reflecting clouds that seemed to carry memories instead of moisture.

His hands were behind his back, his chin slightly lowered. He wasn’t nervous. But he wasn’t steady either. This wasn’t a confrontation. It wasn’t even a confession in the traditional sense.

It was a reckoning—with himself first.

Footsteps approached behind him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He felt her presence before the sound reached his ears. He could tell from the rhythm alone that it was Spandana. Her steps always sounded like she was walking with thought, not haste.

She stopped beside him and said nothing. That was her language too—quiet, but heavy in presence. Like she carried time without trying to fill it.

They both watched the river for a while.The current didn’t rush. It simply moved forward—like Raj needed to.

Then, gently, he spoke.

"Will you walk beside me even when I fall?"

It wasn’t a proposal. Not in the romanticized sense. There was no trembling voice, no grand flourish, no nervous waiting.

It was Raj asking the only question that had ever mattered to him—one he had never asked anyone, even during his darkest hours at the Dome.

Spandana didn’t flinch.She turned to face him, her expression calm but alive.

"I watched you walk alone," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "I won’t let you do it again."

Raj nodded once. No smile. Just that small gesture that, with him, meant everything.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a single red thread—thin, worn, and wrapped around itself three times. It wasn’t store-bought. It wasn’t polished.

It was the same thread that had been tied to his wrist during the last Dome trial. It had soaked in fire, sweat, and silence. It had been part of his story since the beginning.

He held it out.

Spandana didn’t ask why. She raised her left wrist slowly.

He tied it with the same deliberate care he showed when taping his fingers before a match. Tight, but not strangling. Secure, but respectful.

Then she reached into her bag and pulled out her own thread—simpler, unmarked, but tied at the ends like a bracelet. She didn’t offer an explanation either.

She took his hand gently.

"This doesn’t mean perfection," she said. "It means presence. Yours. Mine. Always."

She tied it to his wrist.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The river moved. The wind shifted slightly. Somewhere behind them, an old eucalyptus leaf fell from a high branch, landing in the water without a ripple.

Then Raj spoke again.

"The world will pull at you. They’ll ask questions. They’ll demand stories."

Spandana nodded. "Let them ask."

"You don’t have to stand with me in the storm."

She looked at him, this time with a faint, unspoken smile in her eyes.

"I’m not standing in the storm. I’m choosing the one person who knows how to walk through it without needing applause."

Raj breathed in. The heaviness inside his chest didn’t disappear—but it found a place to rest.

The decision wasn’t loud. It wasn’t legally binding. There was no photo to post. No caption to craft. Just two threads tied across two wrists.

Their engagement didn’t trend.But something deeper began stitching itself into place.

Later that evening, they sat on a high step overlooking the water, legs dangling, shoulders brushing occasionally but not clinging. The sky had darkened, and the first faint stars began pushing through the overcast veil.

Spandana broke the silence gently.

"You’re still scared."

Raj didn’t deny it. "Not of the matches. Not of the crowd."

"Then what?"

He turned to her. His eyes reflected the sky now—calm, but infinite.

"Of winning in front of people who always believed I’d fail. And losing in front of those who quietly hoped I’d rise."

Spandana looked at him for a moment. Then leaned her head softly against his shoulder.

"Then don’t play for either. Play for the boy who stood here once and didn’t know he’d survive."

He closed his eyes. Her words didn’t lift the pressure. But they gave it meaning.

That’s what she had always been—not the one who lightened his burdens, but the one who made them worth carrying.

The air grew colder.They didn’t go back immediately. They sat there until the world forgot to watch.

Because that’s what this moment was.Not a secret.Not a ceremony.

Just a decision stitched silently into their skin, felt only by those who knew what silence truly meant.

Two days after the thread had been tied, Spandana stood quietly inside the living room of Raj’s apartment. The sun had just risen, but the curtains remained half-drawn, letting in a streak of soft gold across the wooden floor.

She wasn’t browsing her phone. She wasn’t preparing breakfast. She was simply staring at the cricket bat leaning against the wall — Raj’s match bat. Clean, polished, precise. A scar along the edge where it had deflected a brutal yorker during his last trial at the Flame Circuit. The scar remained. He refused to sand it down.

Spandana bent slightly and touched the handle. She didn’t grip it. She didn’t pose with it. She just let her fingertips rest where his usually did.

Behind her, Raj stepped out of the bedroom, taping his fingers. The same ritual every morning now.

She turned slowly.

"There’s something I’ve been thinking about."

He looked up.

"They’ll ask about me."

Raj nodded. "They already have."

"They’ll twist it. Call me your distraction. Your anchor. Your PR stunt."

He continued taping. "They’ll call you everything except what you are."

Spandana stepped closer, her voice gentle but sure.

"I need to decide who I am before they tell me."

Raj stopped. He looked up at her, the edge of his wrist still exposed.

"What do you want to be?"

She took a breath, and the next words she said weren’t rehearsed. They weren’t cinematic. But they were true.

"I want to be the one who sees your innings before the crowd chants your name."

"The one who sees the dropped catch that didn’t go viral, but kept your belief intact."

"The one who stands beside you — not because the cameras are watching but because they forget to."

Raj didn’t smile. But his breathing shifted. Slower. Steadier. As if her words wrapped themselves around the core of him and held it still.

"Then stand," he said. "But don’t hold the weight I carry. Only carry me when I forget how far I’ve come."

She nodded once.

Later that evening, Spandana opened her messages to a flood of media notifications.

"Is Spandana Das the silent star beside Raj’s flame?"

"Rumored engagement between RCB’s quiet warrior and national TV icon shocks fans!"

"Inside sources suggest Spandana declined multiple brand deals to stay near Raj during ILP season."

She didn’t respond.Instead, she opened her email.

One subject line stood out:

[ILP Finals Broadcast Anchor Offer – URGENT CONFIRMATION REQUIRED]

It was flattering. A dream for most. National stage. Millions watching. Final presentation. Final interview. Final trophy announcement.

She stared at it for 20 seconds.Then she hit delete.She didn’t even save it in drafts.

The next morning, a journalist ambushed her outside the team apartment.

"Spandana, just one question—will you be traveling with Raj this season? Is the engagement official?"

She looked him dead in the eye.

"Does he need me there?"

The reporter blinked. "That’s not what I asked."

"But that’s the only answer that matters."

She walked past without another word.

That night, Spandana sat alone in the crowd during RCB’s final closed-door practice game before the ILP opener. The stadium was empty. Just support staff. No sponsors. No lights.

Raj was in the middle, facing throwdowns.

His bat made no sound on contact—but every shot felt final.

After the net session, as players drifted away, Raj walked over to where she sat.

No greeting. No smile. Just mutual presence.

She tilted her head.

"You didn’t look at the stands even once."

He shook his head. "I didn’t have to."

"Why?"

He glanced at her wrist. The thread still there.

"Because I knew you were watching."

Two kids ran past behind them — sons of two players from the practice squad. One pointed at Raj.

"That’s him! The quiet guy!"

The other asked, "Why doesn’t he yell when he hits sixes?"

The first one shrugged. "Because his sixes don’t need help."

Spandana smiled faintly. "The fans are beginning to understand you."

Raj watched the kids disappear into the tunnel.

"They don’t need to. They just need to feel that someone finally plays for something real."

She nodded. Then added softly,

"And you don’t need to speak for them to hear you."

Later that night, while scrolling social media quietly, she came across a fan post that stopped her cold.

It wasn’t viral. It had only 27 likes.But it said everything.

@BleedsRed_09:

"We’ve had players. We’ve had stars. But this one—Raj—he’s not carrying the jersey. He’s carrying us."

She didn’t save it.She didn’t repost.But she whispered the line once to herself and let it live in the silence that followed.

The last night before the ILP season began felt oddly silent. No fanfare, no fireworks, no music blaring outside stadium walls. But inside Raj’s apartment, silence wasn’t emptiness—it was breathing room.

Spandana sat cross-legged on the floor, helping him organize his travel kit. Gloves, wristbands, match-day bat, a folded white towel. Everything had a place, and yet none of it made the place feel ready.

Raj, still taping his fingers, looked at the final item in her hand—a photo.It was worn around the edges, slightly creased, its gloss faded.

A childhood team photo from the Flame Circuit. Six teens. One dream. A younger Raj at the corner, eyes sharper than his smile.

He took it and placed it inside the base compartment of his duffel.

Spandana said nothing. She just zipped the bag.Then came a knock at the door.

A staff member handed Raj his official Royal Commanders Bangalore match-day jersey—number 42 stitched deep in blood red across the back. Beneath it, barely visible to anyone except him, was a phrase embroidered along the inner collar:

"Silence doesn’t wait to be heard."

He held it in his hands for a long time.

Spandana walked into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of water. No juice. No coffee. Just clear, cold water.

"Drink. Your silence deserves hydration," she teased gently.

Raj took the glass, but didn’t drink yet.

"Tomorrow, I don’t play for the team."

Spandana raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"I play for the belief that never made noise. For the people who waited 20 years for a reason to cheer without doubt."

She smiled faintly. "Then they finally have their reason."

He finished the glass in one motion."They don’t have me."

He placed the glass down."They have us."

Midnight — RCB Fan Group Chats, All Over Bengaluru

"He’s playing tomorrow. Confirmed."

"I swear I’ll cry if he hits just one six. That’s all I want."

"Do you remember that meme: ’RCB can’t win a trophy until silence plays No. 4?’ That’s tomorrow."

One fan, @ThatOldRedFan, wrote:

"My son was born the year we last made the final. He’s 19 now. All he’s ever known is heartbreak. But tomorrow, he’ll watch someone who doesn’t shout, doesn’t sell, doesn’t fake just plays."

6:12 AM — Match Day Morning

Raj stood on his balcony.No alarm had woken him. He had risen naturally, the way threads pull when they sense tension on the other end.

Spandana joined him, her eyes slightly red from lack of sleep. She didn’t ask if he was ready.

Instead, she handed him a sealed envelope. No writing on it. Just a small blue wax stamp at the corner.

He opened it slowly.Inside was a handwritten letter. The paper yellowed. Ink faded. The handwriting familiar.

It was from his mother.

"To my son—

You don’t need to be loud to be felt.

You don’t need to lift trophies to be remembered.

You only need to stand. Without shame. Without pretending.

If the world ever forgets how you began, let your silence remind them why you stayed standing."

It wasn’t dated. But the tears that had dried on it spoke of years.

Raj didn’t speak.He folded it, pressed it to his chest once, then slid it into his kitbag, beneath the gloves.

Later That Morning — Team Bus Ride

The RCB team bus was filled with nervous energy. Laughter too loud. Songs playing. Coaches shouting reminders.

Raj sat near the window, headphones plugged in—but with no music playing.

He watched the streets blur into the stadium road.Across a flyover, he spotted a group of fans waving a massive handmade banner:

"We Don’t Cheer for Noise. We Cheer for Raj."

Another held up a jersey with the number 42 drawn in permanent marker across their chest.

Inside the bus, a young all-rounder leaned over to his friend.

"They really think he’s gonna save us."

The friend replied,"He doesn’t even try to. That’s why it feels like he might."

1:03 PM — Silicon Grounds, Bengaluru

As Raj entered the dressing room, there was a soft murmur in the background. Not from the players—but from the staff. Coaches. Old franchise legends.

Brij Mehra, the coach, didn’t give a long speech.

He just looked at Raj once and said:

"When you walk out, don’t carry us. Just be the thread."

Raj nodded.

As he began to change into his match-day gear, one thing became clear—he wasn’t dressing for a match. He was dressing for a belief that had waited two decades to be stitched back together.

And in the stands outside, the crowd didn’t chant yet.They breathed.They waited.

Because flame doesn’t begin with noise.

It begins with presence.

To be continued.....