The Final Set

It’s 8 p.m. on a chilly evening in Bangalore, and I’m sitting in my boyfriend’s room, wrapped in quiet and half-finished thoughts. Outside, the city hums the way it always does, but inside, my mind has slipped years back into a memory that refuses to stay still.

Or maybe this isn’t a memory anymore.

Maybe it’s a story.

I was nineteen then, standing at the edge of my final Inter-IIT tournament. Uttarakhand greeted us with a cold that felt unfamiliar, sharp but comforting, like it wanted you to pay attention. The campus buzzed with energy, laughter echoing across open grounds, banners fluttering, players moving with purpose. It felt more alive than IITH had ever felt to me, and I remember thinking that maybe places, like people, had personalities of their own.

I had lost my match.

It stung, of course. Loss always does. But my return ticket to Hyderabad wasn’t until two days later, and for once, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Those two days stretched before me like a pause and an unexpected gift. So I let myself wander. I walked through Roorkee’s quiet streets, watched the Ganga flow endlessly in Haridwar, and returned to campus to watch the rest of the tournaments unfold.

Life was still happening there, even if my part in it had ended.

Sports continued across the grounds, the cheering crowds, whistles, applause, but tennis sat quietly on one side, almost forgotten. That afternoon, my friend Amudha was playing.

“Come na,” Amudha said, tugging at my sleeve. “At least sit for a bit. No one comes to watch women’s tennis anyway.”

I hesitated. Then shrugged.

“Okay. Why not?”

That’s how casually it began.

The sun hung low when I reached the court. The stands were nearly empty, just a handful of people scattered around, their attention divided. I found a seat and searched for Amudha on the court.

And then I saw him.

He was on the opposite side, playing the finals. His movements were sharp, precise, almost effortless. Every shot landed with intent. There was something magnetic about the way he held himself, focused, intense, fully present. Sweat trickled down his face, his hair slightly disheveled, his jaw set like he had already decided he would win.

I forgot to breathe for a second.

“Isn’t that the finals?” someone near me whispered.

I nodded without looking away.

For the first ten minutes, I tried to cheer for Amudha. I clapped when she scored, called her name softly, reminding myself why I was there. But my eyes betrayed me again and again, drifting back to him.

I found myself leaning forward, squinting slightly, trying to read the back of his jersey.

What’s his name?

Which IIT is he from?

Each time he turned, my heart beat a little faster, only to sink when I still couldn’t make it out.

“Who are you even cheering for?” my friend teased.

“I am cheering!” I protested, a little too quickly.

She smiled like she didn’t believe me.

The match grew intense. The crowd, small as it was, started paying attention. Every point he won drew murmurs of appreciation. When he finally scored the winning point, there was a brief silence, followed by applause that felt louder than the number of people present.

He had won gold.

I watched as he exhaled, bent slightly, hands on his knees, then straightened up with a smile that felt dangerously easy. For a moment, he looked around the court, and our eyes met.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

I looked away first, my cheeks warm despite the cold.

I didn’t know his name then. I didn’t know his story, his voice, or the fact that one day I’d be sitting in a room years later, thinking about this exact moment. All I knew was that something had shifted quietly inside me.

No thunder.

No dramatic music.

Just a feeling, soft, curious, undeniable.

Later, someone mentioned his name in passing.

“Gaurav. IIT Bombay.”

I remember smiling to myself. I told myself I wouldn’t wait, but my feet didn’t move.

I pretended to check my phone, adjusted the strap of my bag, and lingered longer than necessary. Around me, people drifted away in pairs and groups, their conversations dissolving into the cold air. The court emptied slowly, until the silence felt louder than the cheers had been.

He stepped off the court, towel slung over his shoulder. Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else said his name again, 'Gaurav'... and this time, it felt strange how naturally it fit into my thoughts.

I wondered if he noticed me the way I noticed him.

Probably not.

That thought should have been enough to make me leave. Instead, I stayed.

At the edge of the court, I bent to pick up a tennis ball that had rolled away, resting near my feet like it belonged there.

“Hey—thanks.”

The voice startled me.

I looked up, and he was standing a few feet away, closer than I had imagined. His smile was easy, unguarded, the kind that made you forget what you were about to say.

“Oh—yeah,” I replied, handing him the ball. “Good match.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You play?”

“A little,” I admitted. “Not like that, though.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, neither do I most days.”

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… open.

“I’m Gaurav,” he said finally, like the moment had decided for him.

“I thought you were cheering for someone else,” he said, glancing back at the now-empty court.

“I was,” I said, smiling. “At least, I was supposed to be.”

His smile widened, and for a second, the world felt lighter than it had any right to.

“Which IIT?” he asked.

“Hyderabad.”

“IIT Bombay,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

The cold crept in then, sharp and sudden. I hugged my jacket closer, aware of how late it was getting, of how this moment already felt like something I’d remember.

“Well,” I said, “congratulations. On the gold.”

“Thank you,” he replied. Then, after a beat, “Are you… staying back?”

“Two more days,” I said. I didn’t know why I added, “My train’s day after tomorrow.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “Same. I mean—not the train. The staying back.”

We stood there, neither of us saying what we were both thinking—that time was short, that this was unexpected, that some meetings arrive without asking if you’re ready.

Someone called his name from across the court.

“I should go,” he said, regret flickering across his face.

“Yeah,” I agreed, even though I didn’t want to.

He hesitated, then said, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Maybe,” I replied.

He walked away, and I watched until he disappeared into the crowd. Only then did I realize my hands were cold, my heart oddly full, and my mind already replaying a moment that had barely lasted minutes.

I didn’t know it then, but some beginnings are quiet because they’re not meant to last. They’re meant to be remembered.

The campus felt different at 2 a.m.

The noise of the day had settled into something softer, distant laughter, the hum of streetlights, footsteps echoing just a little longer than they should. The cold had sharpened, and hunger had become an excuse to step outside again.

“Maggi and chai,” Amudha announced, already halfway down the path. “Non-negotiable.”

I laughed and followed her toward the night canteen, pulling my jacket tighter around myself. We talked about everything and nothing, academics, grades, professors who took themselves too seriously.

“I swear,” she said, “if this semester gets any worse—”

I barely heard the rest.

“Hi.”

The voice came from behind us.

I stopped mid-step.

For a second, I thought I imagined it, thought my mind was playing tricks on me, replaying a face I hadn’t quite let go of yet. Then I turned.

It was him.

Gaurav stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, a shy, almost uncertain smile on his face. He looked different out of the spotlight, quieter, softer, like someone you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

My heart forgot how to behave.

“Nice to see you again,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, nervous in a way that made my chest tighten.

I was happy, ridiculously so, that he had talked to me again. And at the same time, my nerves tangled themselves into knots. My brain scrambled for words, any words, while my friend slowly turned to look at me.

And then she nudged me.

Hard.

I shot her a look, half warning, half plea, 'please don’t do this right now'. She only grinned wider, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“Hi,” I managed finally, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “Uh… hi there.”

He smiled a little more at that, like he found the awkwardness familiar.

The moment stretched, fragile and sweet, until he spoke again.

“I realized I never actually asked you your name,” he said. “Earlier.”

“Oh,” I replied, suddenly very aware of myself. I took a small breath, gathering courage from somewhere deep inside. “I’m Avani.”

There it was.

Out in the open.

“Avani,” he repeated, slowly, like he wanted to remember it. “That’s… nice.”

I smiled before I could stop myself.

My friend cleared her throat dramatically. “So,” she said, glancing between us, “are we all getting Maggi or just standing here staring at each other?”

I groaned.

Gaurav laughed an easy and surprised sound that felt like a reward.

“Maggi sounds perfect,” he said. “Mind if I join?”

I should have hesitated.

Instead, I nodded.

And just like that, at two in the morning, under cold lights and quieter stars, the night opened up in ways I hadn’t expected at all.

And that’s how it started.

IITH loves IITB.

And I, without knowing it yet, had already begun to fall.