Stuck Voyage of 20's

The sun rose on a Thursday that felt like any other, but both Avantika and Dhruv were unknowingly bracing for a shift—separate, yet silently aligned.

---

Avantika

Her alarm rang at 6:45 AM. The faint light filtering through the curtains reminded her that she hadn't slept much. The campaign deck presentation was at 11 AM. She'd checked the slides three times already, but her fingers still hovered over her laptop, itching to fix what probably didn't need fixing.

She looked into the mirror. Sharp blazer, soft lipstick, tired eyes.

This is it.

As she walked into the conference room later that morning, her steps were slow but steady. Priya gave her a small nod, and that was all the reassurance she needed.

Slides clicked. Words flowed. Avantika's voice didn't shake.

She talked about authenticity, about the culture of filters and perfection, and why brands need to be more human. When she finished, there was a brief pause.

Then came the nods. Then questions. Then a few smiles.

When the meeting ended, Priya leaned in and whispered, "You nailed it. They're considering this for pilot rollout."

Avantika blinked. "Wait—seriously?"

"You've earned it."

She walked out of the room with something stronger than confidence. It was belonging.

---

Dhruv

Three states away, Dhruv zipped up his training jersey and headed to the stadium. The sun was unforgiving, but the court was already buzzing with squeaking shoes and the occasional whistle.

His tournament match was next week, and the pressure was mounting—not just from coaches, but from within. Every dribble, every missed free throw felt heavier now.

"Yo, you're in your head again," his teammate Aryan muttered, tossing him the ball.

"I'm fine," Dhruv replied, though he wasn't.

They were running full drills when his ankle rolled awkwardly on a fast break. Not enough to stop him, but just enough to sting.

"Sit out for a bit," the coach barked.

Dhruv grabbed his water bottle and sat on the edge, quietly fuming. What if this becomes worse? What if I miss the tournament?

He stared at the court—not with envy, but with something sadder. Fear. The kind that athletes don't admit out loud. The fear that your body might betray your dream.

He pulled out his phone, hesitated, and finally texted:

Dhruv: What if I don't make it to the court next week?

---

Avantika

She saw the message during her lunch break. She stepped outside, sat on the stairs, and smiled slightly. She could almost hear his voice in the words.

She typed slowly.

Avantika: Then you heal. You rest. And when you're back, you come back stronger. One missed game doesn't write your story.

A pause.

Then another message.

Avantika: Also, remember when I couldn't say a single sentence without stuttering in front of seniors? I did a full pitch today. They liked it.

---

Dhruv

He read her texts and leaned back against the bench wall, his chest warm with pride.

Dhruv: Of course they did. You were always the brave one.

Avantika: That's funny. I thought you were.

He smiled. There was a strange comfort in their parallel lives. Different fields, different cities, different fears. But somehow, they were each other's grounding wires—reminders that they weren't alone in their chaos.

---

That evening, Dhruv iced his ankle and rewatched an old match video. Not to critique, but to remember why he loved the game in the first place.

Avantika, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on her bed, typing a personal journal entry titled "Not Knowing, But Trying Anyway."

---

They were miles apart—one chasing a sport, the other chasing a place in a boardroom. Neither had it all figured out. But both had a fire, a reason, and a person who quietly believed in them.

Sometimes, that's all you need.