It started with a name.
"Haruto!"
Aarav looked up instinctively.
The boy in the hallway paused, blinked, tilted his head.
The coach behind him laughed. "Ah—sorry! You look like him from behind."
Aarav blinked once.
Nodded politely.
Said nothing.
He wasn't Haruto.
Whoever that was.
The baseball club was quiet in the mornings.
Just a few kids practicing soft tosses.
The distant crack of a bat.
A whistle.
Shoes on gravel.
His uncle had asked him to stop by —
"Just to watch," he'd said.
Aarav hadn't expected to be mistaken for someone else.
It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
He sat on the bench outside the dugout, hoodie off.
Sun on his neck.
Notebook in his lap, blank.
Haruto, it turned out, was the captain of the U-15 local team.
Fast, focused, well-liked.
Also — short, square-faced, with messy hair and too much energy.
Nothing like Aarav.
And yet, from behind…
just another boy with black hair and slumped shoulders.
Interchangeable.
Forgettable.
He kept thinking about it.
The way the coach smiled, as if Aarav had no weight, no history, no scandal wrapped around his name.
As if Aarav Kapoor was just another kid at the fence.
He tried to tell himself it felt good.
But it didn't.
Not completely.
Back in Delhi, his name had been too loud.
Here, it was too silent.
And he didn't know which version scared him more.
During water break, one of the players walked over.
Spoke in slow English.
"You play?"
Aarav shrugged.
"Used to."
The boy nodded, thoughtful.
"Haruto plays too much."
That made him laugh.
"Maybe he's trying to forget something," Aarav said.
The boy didn't understand.
Just smiled and ran back.
Later, while cleaning up, a kid dropped a glove.
Aarav picked it up, handed it over.
The kid looked at him.
"You're not Haruto," he said in Japanese-accented English.
Aarav smiled.
"No," he said. "I'm not."
The kid tilted his head.
"Who are you?"
That part—
He didn't answer.
On the way home, he walked slowly.
The streets blurred past him, unbothered.
He passed a mirror outside a salon.
Paused.
Looked at himself.
Hoodie.
Bat-shaped shadow in the bag.
Hair messy.
Face older than it should be.
He whispered,
"Who are you, really?"
No answer.
Just his own breath fogging the glass.
At home, he unzipped the duffel.
Took out the jersey.
Held it up.
"KAPOOR."
It used to make him stand taller.
Now?
It felt like a name someone else had worn longer than he deserved.
He placed it on the futon.
Sat beside it.
The phone vibrated.
A message from his uncle:
"The coach liked you. Thought you looked like Haruto. That's a good thing. You blended."
Blended.
That word stung.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was right.
He didn't know how to be "not seen" without disappearing.
A knock.
Hana.
He didn't open the door fully.
She tilted her head.
"You okay?"
He nodded.
Lied.
"You blend in now," she said, like reading his thoughts.
"Is that good?"
"Depends."
"On?"
She shrugged.
"Whether you want to disappear… or just hide."
He opened the door wider.
Let her in.
She sat at the table.
Unpacked a small bag.
No bento today.
Just two cans of coffee.
She placed one in front of him.
"I was mistaken for someone else today," he said.
She sipped.
Waited.
"Haruto. Local player."
"You don't look like a Haruto."
"I didn't think so either."
She watched him.
"And how did it feel?"
"Like I didn't exist."
"Did that hurt?"
He thought for a long moment.
"I'm not sure."
The silence between them grew gentle.
Not cold.
She finally said,
"Maybe the question isn't 'who are you'… but 'who are you when you're not performing.'"
He looked at her.
Really looked.
"Do you ask yourself that too?"
She smiled faintly.
"I stopped performing years ago."
He didn't ask what.
Didn't need to.
That night, he didn't unwrap the bat.
Didn't touch the jersey.
He just opened his notebook.
Wrote three words.
I am trying.
Then closed it.
Not with answers.
But with honesty.