The days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last. Rohan moved through them like a ghost, his body present but his mind far away, trapped in the swirling vortex of doubt and despair that had consumed him. His leg was healing, slowly but surely, but the physical recovery did nothing to ease the emotional weight that bore down on him.
His once disciplined routine had disintegrated into a cycle of avoidance and apathy. He barely left his apartment, only venturing out when necessary for physical therapy appointments. His friends, teammates, and family had all tried to reach out, but Rohan pushed them away, retreating further into his own isolation. It was easier that way. Easier to not have to explain how lost he felt, how hollow his life had become without running.
The injury had taken more from him than just his ability to compete. It had stripped him of his identity, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Who was he if not a runner? What was his purpose if he could no longer race?
These questions haunted him, keeping him awake at night and dragging him down into the darkest corners of his mind. There was no escape from them, no moment of respite. He had spent his entire life chasing a dream, and now that dream had slipped through his fingers, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.
The phone calls from his family had become less frequent. At first, his parents and brother had called every day, trying to check in, trying to offer support. But as the days passed and Rohan continued to shut them out, their calls had slowly tapered off. The silence that replaced them was deafening, a constant reminder of the widening gap between him and the people who cared about him. He had pushed them away because he didn't know how to explain what he was going through. How could they understand the depth of his despair, the way his world had crumbled around him?
He hadn't spoken to Ms. Mehra in days, either. Her daily visits had become less frequent as well, though she always left a message or sent a text to check in. Rohan never responded. He wasn't ready to face her, not when he felt like he was drowning in his own failure. She had always believed in him, pushed him to be better, stronger. But what could she say now that his body had betrayed him? He had failed, and he couldn't bear to see the disappointment in her eyes.
As the days dragged on, Rohan spent most of his time lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. His mind replayed the moment of his injury over and over, like a broken record. He could still feel the sharp, searing pain in his hamstring, the exact moment when his dream had shattered. It haunted him, taunting him with the knowledge that no matter how hard he had trained, no matter how much he had sacrificed, it hadn't been enough to avoid this.
The worst part was the uncertainty. The doctors had been vague, cautiously optimistic, but there were no guarantees. Rohan knew that even if he recovered physically, there was no telling if he would ever be the same runner again. The fear of not being able to return to the sport he loved loomed over him like a dark cloud, feeding the growing void inside him.
One particularly bleak afternoon, Rohan sat on his couch, the blinds drawn tightly shut, bathing the room in a dull gray light. His leg ached, but he barely noticed it anymore. The physical pain had become secondary, just another part of the numbness that seemed to have settled into his bones.
A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. At first, he ignored it, hoping whoever it was would leave him alone. But the knock came again, more insistent this time. With a heavy sigh, Rohan stood up, wincing as his injured leg protested the movement. He hobbled to the door, expecting to find Ms. Mehra or a well-meaning neighbor. But when he opened it, he was surprised to see his younger brother, Rahul, standing in the hallway.
Rahul looked different than the last time Rohan had seen him. He looked older, more mature. There was a quiet strength in his eyes that Rohan hadn't noticed before. He was no longer the shy, uncertain teenager who had looked up to Rohan with wide-eyed admiration. Now, Rahul seemed to carry a quiet confidence, as if he had faced his own challenges and come out stronger.
"Hey, bhaiya," Rahul said softly, his voice hesitant but warm.
Rohan stared at him for a moment, too stunned to respond. He hadn't expected to see his brother here, not after pushing him away for so long.
"Can I come in?" Rahul asked, shifting awkwardly in the doorway.
Rohan nodded, stepping aside to let his brother in. Rahul walked into the small apartment, glancing around at the mess Rohan had let accumulate—the discarded clothes, the empty takeout containers, the general disarray that reflected Rohan's mental state.
Rahul turned to face him, his expression gentle but serious. "Ma and Papa are worried about you," he said quietly. "We all are."
Rohan looked away, guilt gnawing at him. He hadn't thought about how his silence was affecting his family, hadn't considered how they must feel, watching him shut down like this.
"I didn't know what to say," Rohan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't want to burden anyone."
Rahul frowned, stepping closer. "You're not a burden, bhaiya. You're family. We want to help you. But you've been shutting everyone out. We didn't know how to reach you."
Rohan sank onto the couch, his head in his hands. "I don't even know how to help myself," he muttered, his voice filled with frustration and despair.
Rahul sat down beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this alone," he said softly. "We've always been here for you. We've always believed in you. But you've got to let us in."
Rohan took a deep breath, his chest tight with emotion. For so long, he had been trying to carry the weight of his injury and his fears on his own, thinking that he had to be strong, that he couldn't show weakness. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe he had been trying to do everything by himself for too long.
"I don't know if I can come back from this," Rohan confessed, his voice shaking. "What if I'm not the same runner? What if… what if it's all over?"
Rahul was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he spoke, his voice steady and calm. "Bhaiya, I don't know what's going to happen. None of us do. But I do know one thing—you're not defined by what happens to you. You're defined by how you respond to it."
Rohan blinked, his mind racing as he processed his brother's words. He had been so focused on the fear of losing everything, of not being able to run again, that he hadn't considered what Rahul was saying. Maybe this injury didn't have to be the end. Maybe it was a test of who he was, not just as a runner, but as a person.
Rahul continued, his voice quiet but firm. "You've always been my hero, bhaiya. Not because you were the fastest or the best, but because you never gave up. You always found a way to keep going, no matter how hard it got. That's what makes you who you are. And that's why I know you'll get through this."
Tears welled up in Rohan's eyes as he listened to his brother's words. For the first time in weeks, the weight on his chest began to lift, just a little. Rahul was right. His injury didn't have to be the end of his story. It could be the beginning of something new, something he hadn't even imagined yet.
Rohan wiped his eyes, a small, tentative smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks, Rahul," he whispered. "I needed that."
Rahul smiled back, his eyes filled with relief. "Anytime, bhaiya. We're all here for you. Just don't forget that."
For the first time since his injury, Rohan felt a flicker of hope. The road ahead would still be long and difficult, but maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as lost as he had thought. Maybe, with the help of his family and those who believed in him, he could find his way back to the light.