Lost but Not Forgotten

PART 1

The roar of the crowd filled the stadium as Virat Kohli raised his bat one final time. The King of Indian cricket, the man who had redefined the game, was playing his last match. The cheers were deafening, but in Virat's heart, a sense of hollowness clung to him like a shadow. As his teammates crowded around him, urging him to stay for just one more game, his eyes drifted over the sea of faces, searching for something—or someone—that wasn't there.

Rohit.

It had been twenty long years since Rohit Sharma disappeared into the night, leaving behind nothing but silence and unanswered questions. And though Virat had cemented his place as India's cricketing legend, the empty space in his heart never healed. Because three years ago, the unthinkable had happened—the truth had finally come out.

Rohit had been innocent all along.

The match-fixing accusations, the signatures, the evidence—everything had been part of a malicious conspiracy to bring him down. All the lies, all the betrayal, had been a cruel manipulation. The world now knew the truth, but it had come far too late.

As the team gathered on the field to celebrate Virat's final moments in the game, Jasprit Bumrah and Hardik Pandya stood off to the side, their eyes downcast, their guilt too heavy to bear. They had once idolized Rohit—he had been their mentor, their brother. And yet, when the world had turned on him, they hadn't believed him. They had joined the chorus of accusations, choosing anger over trust.

Harry, usually the playful, carefree one, hadn't cracked a joke in hours. His face was solemn, lost in thought. Jasprit, who had once looked up to Rohit as his first guiding hand in cricket, stared at the ground, hands clenched into fists. The guilt of what they had done still gnawed at them, an ever-present ache that time couldn't erase.

"You know," Shreyas started hesitantly, "today's match would've been so different if Rohit was here."

The words hung in the air for a moment, and Virat's heart clenched. But before anyone could respond, Jasprit shook his head, eyes filled with regret. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't bring him up. Not here. Not now."

Hardik nodded, his jaw tight. "We lost the right to speak his name when we turned our backs on him."

There was a silence that followed, thick with guilt and unresolved sorrow. Even Virat, the man known for his fiery speeches and undying confidence, found himself unable to meet their eyes. How could he? He, too, had played a part in pushing Rohit away. He had been one of the first to accuse, one of the first to doubt, blinded by anger and the false evidence presented before them. And by the time they realized their mistake, by the time they tried to make things right, Rohit had vanished.

Three years ago, when the truth had surfaced and the world learned of the conspiracy, the team had rushed to find Rohit, desperate to apologize, to beg for forgiveness. They had gone to his home, but all they found was an empty house. No note. No explanation. Just emptiness. Rohit, Ritika, and Samaira were gone, leaving behind a legacy in ruins and a family torn apart.

Virat had stood in that doorway, staring into the empty home where he had once shared so many moments with his best friend, and felt the crushing weight of his choices. His accusations, his anger—it had all driven Rohit to leave, to vanish from the world of cricket and from their lives. And now, as he stood in the stadium for his last game, that guilt returned, fresh and raw, reminding him of the friendship he had let slip away.

The post-match celebrations began, with speeches honoring Virat's incredible career. His teammates, one by one, took to the microphone, sharing memories, praising his leadership, and recounting moments that had defined Indian cricket.

But the absence of one man was felt in every word. Rohit's name hovered unspoken in the air, a painful reminder of the wound that had never healed.

During Virat's farewell speech, he faltered for a brief moment. His voice wavered, and his eyes drifted toward the horizon, where the sun was setting over the stadium.

"I've had a lot of great moments in my career," Virat began, his voice heavy with emotion. "But there's one regret that will never leave me. And that's the fact that I... that we lost someone along the way. A brother."

The crowd went silent, and the team shifted uncomfortably behind him. They all knew who he was talking about, but none dared speak his name.

"To Rohit," Virat finally said, his voice cracking. "Wherever you are, I hope one day we can make things right."

As he finished, a murmur spread through the crowd, and tears brimmed in Virat's eyes. But he knew, deep down, that it was too late. They had lost Rohit seven years ago, not just from the game but from their lives. And the guilt of that would follow them forever.

As the team left the stadium, they passed by Rohit's old house, now empty and abandoned. The gate was locked, the windows dark. No one had heard from him in years.

"Do you think he'll ever come back?" Ishan whispered, his voice barely audible.

Jasprit shook his head, eyes still fixed on the house. "I don't know. But we'll never stop hoping."

And with that, the team moved on, haunted by the memory of the man they had wrongfully pushed away, the Hitman who had disappeared without a trace.