You know in K-dramas when a girl bumps into a guy and her books fall, and then he helps her pick them up and they lock eyes and boom — love?
Yeah, no. That's not my story.
My story starts with hatred. Deep, confusing, unnecessary hatred.
His name is Prince.
Yes, that's actually his name. Prince.
No, he's not royalty. No, he doesn't act like a gentleman either.
He was just... always there.
Always one step ahead.
Always top of the class when I thought I was doing well.
Always raising his hand faster.
Always getting praised by Mr. Douglas, while I quietly fumed in my seat, chewing my pen like it was his fault my GPA wasn't glowing.
At first, I told myself I didn't care.
Then I started hating him.
And when I say hate, I mean... academic rivalry hate.
Like I wanted to trip him on the stairs hate.
Like I wished he'd forget his homework kind of hate.
But every time I thought that, he'd somehow show up with perfectly handwritten notes and a calm, smug smile.
Even his handwriting annoyed me.
Our "rivalry" started in first term. I don't even remember how.
He probably beat me by two points in an English test, and my soul just took it personally.
We started throwing sarcastic comments at each other.
In group discussions, he'd say something like,
"Oh, Bernice, don't strain your brain, I got this."
And I'd reply,
"Oh, thank God, I didn't want the group's average to drop."
It was always petty.
Always childish.
Always weirdly... fun?
We began pranking each other.
Nothing extreme — just little things.
I once switched his chair for one with a wobbly leg before class. He sat and fell with such grace, I almost clapped.
He once poured a few drops of lemon juice into my water bottle. I drank it and nearly cried. He winked. I nearly threw my book at his head.
Somehow, we kept gravitating toward each other — like magnets coated in sarcasm and quiet feelings.
I didn't even notice when the hate started turning into something else.
Like the day I was crying in the library after a small panic attack during class, and he quietly slid a tissue across the table, not saying a word.
Or the time he waited outside the exam hall for me, just to say, "I know you smashed it. You always do."
Did I like him?
Ugh. Probably.
But I wasn't going to admit that to anyone — not even to myself.
So I kept pretending I didn't care.
I kept teasing him, rolling my eyes when he walked in, laughing when he said something dumb, even though I secretly thought he was the smartest guy I knew.
Maybe it was all part of the game.
Maybe I was scared.
Maybe… liking someone who always beat me in tests felt like losing.
But whatever it was, I knew this:
He wasn't just a rival anymore.
He had slowly, sneakily, and annoyingly become someone I actually looked forward to seeing.
Even if I had to call him names to keep it from being obvious.