Canvas of Love

It is our business

In a dimly lit room, a tall boy sat on his bed, his face illuminated by the soft glow of fairy lights strung haphazardly around the headboard. 

He had his headphones on, bobbing his head rhythmically to a song no one else could hear. 

The oversized sweater he wore was slipping off one shoulder, but he paid no attention as he scrolled through his phone with one hand while his other hand struggled to open a stubborn jar of cookies.

The boy pouted, his brows furrowing in concentration. After a couple of failed attempts, he resorted to the most childish solution: he bit the edge of the jar's lid and tried twisting it off with his teeth. 

After a second of struggle, it popped open with a satisfying thunk, making him laugh in victory, muffled by the lid in his mouth.

He immediately fished out a cookie, but before he could take a bite, his phone buzzed with a notification. 

His eyes flicked to the screen, and his expression changed, softening into a goofy grin as he read something. 

Still holding the cookie like a trophy, he wiggled his legs back and forth on the edge of the bed, his long limbs giving him the appearance of an excited kid.

Suddenly, without warning, he kicked his legs out in a mini celebratory dance, nearly knocking over a cup of tea he had precariously balanced on the nightstand. 

He caught it just in time, letting out a sheepish chuckle as he placed the cup back down carefully, whispering a small "Oops, close one" like the tea was a fragile companion.

Then, out of nowhere, he scooped up his pillow and hugged it tightly to his chest, rolling back onto the bed dramatically, and kicking his feet up in the air. 

"Why am I like this?" he mumbled through giggles, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for an answer from the universe.

Still clutching the pillow, he reached for another cookie, biting into it with a satisfied hum. 

His antics, all done in the quiet comfort of his room, were adorably chaotic and filled with infectious energy, making anyone watching want to smile along with him. 

His sweet, endearing goofiness filled the space, making the room feel alive with an almost magical warmth.

The blazing sun beat down mercilessly on the practice ground, casting long shadows on the field where the Indian Cricket Team (ICT) was hard at work. 

The rhythmic thuds of leather on willow, the occasional crack of a well-timed shot, and the sharp instructions from the coaches filled the air. 

It was a normal practice session—at least on the surface. But beneath the surface, there was a growing tension, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Three days had passed, and in those three days, something had shifted between Ishan Kishan and Shubman Gill. Something no one could exactly pinpoint, but everyone could feel. 

The once lighthearted teasing, playful bickering, and subtle rivalry had transformed into cold indifference. 

The two hadn't even exchanged a single glance, let alone spoken a word to each other. And that, in itself, was enough to throw off the entire team's dynamic.

Shubman stood at the crease, his jaw clenched in concentration, his eyes dark and focused. Every ball bowled at him was met with a precise, almost mechanical shot. 

There was no trace of joy or playfulness in his movements, just pure, cold precision. His silence was unnerving.

A few feet away, Ishan was pacing near the boundary, his bat swinging restlessly in his hand. His face was flushed—not from the heat, but from frustration.