The Noise Arrives First
Aarav’s POV
The first thing Aarav Mehra learned about a scandal was that it had already decided who he was. But being in that limelight was still new to him.
He was halfway through his morning stretch, a cup of coffee waiting on the side table, reaching the perfect temperature, where he could gulp it in one go. Suddenly, his phone began vibrating against the wooden floor, sharp and insistent, like something trapped. He ignored it at first. Phones were always loud in the mornings- trainers, managers, PR people panicking about nothing that would matter in a week.
Then it rang again. And again.
By the time he reached for his phone, there were over 20 missed calls, and a message preview screaming: DAMAGE CONTROL. CALL ASAP.
Aarav sat up, a gym towel casually sitting on his shoulder, as sweat dripped from his forehead. It took 30 seconds for the world to rearrange itself and give in to the headlines.
′Cricket’s golden boy caught in secret overseas affair?′ the headline said.
Below it was a grainy picture of him, unmistakably him. Same hoodie, same cap and a café he knew. Across from him, blurred just enough to invite imagination, was a woman. He kept staring at the phone, a little longer than intended. He remembered that cafe. He remembered that last hot cup of coffee, and he remembered her.
The article spoke with confidence. Multiple meetings. A hidden relationship. Sources close to the team. Distraction. Aarav scrolled until the words blurred. He locked the phone and let it fall onto the bed.
He decided to move to another form of media and switched on his television. And while watching his face appear on all the news channels, with dramatic backgrounds and animations, a thought crossed his mind: Is she seeing all this?
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The woman in the photograph didn’t have a name yet in the media. That was a mercy, he supposed. Her face had been blurred, reduced to an outline. An object for speculation. But he knew her name- Aarohi. The name arrived with surprising clarity. But will she recognise herself in the smear of pixels? They had spoken for fifteen minutes, no exchanged numbers, no promises, barely even a goodbye and yet, the world had found it worth rewriting.
His phone rang again. “They’re asking for a statement,” his manager said. “Silence won’t help.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Aarav said. There was a long pause, not because of disbelief but careful calculation.
“I know,” the manager replied. “But that’s not how this works.” For the first time since morning, someone was honest and stating facts. Aarav ended the call and sat very still. All he could think was, ‘Is there a way to warn her? To help her?’
His phone buzzed again, this time it was some fan pages posting recklessly, some heartbroken, some holding their speculations and urging people to wait for confirmation, and others making memes about him, already blaming her for his failed sixes and missed catches.
He had trained for stadiums that roared his name and cursed it in the same breath. For matches where a single mistake replayed itself across screens and headlines. For praise that evaporated the moment he failed. But this wasn’t about cricket. This was about ownership. About how easily the world reached into moments that didn’t belong to it and rewrote them until they fit a narrative people found entertaining.
He paced the room, anxious and exhausted at the same time. Somewhere, there was a woman, falling prey to his fame without consent. And for the first time in years, Aarav wished for anonymity, for a life where moments could exist without any witnesses. Where a coffee was just a coffee and not a scandal. Where silence was not a confirmation, but accepted with respect.
