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prologue. gpa? more like “gonna panic anyway”!
the last few months of the semester also mark the beginning of your quiet war.
normally, no student would start studying this early before finals. you wouldn’t have either, if not for your professors shrieking in your ear about it.
your mindset has always been simple: “as long as i pass”. so far, you’ve managed that part quite well. no stress, no panic or scrambling, no anxiety looming over like a ghost sniffing out its next victim.
“come on, [name]! can’t you just… put in a little more effort? a tad bit??”
once again, you were told to stay after class for a talk. however, every single voice in the room was going back and forth about memorizing thirty complex formulas while figuring out what message the author was trying to convey through a short paragraph.
after having enough of your signature dumbfounded face, the teachers sent you home with textbooks stacked up to your chin, alongside a detailed note for revision and reminding you to fix the horrid sleep schedule. (as if that’s ever going to happen!)
initially, you weren’t even worried. you’ve been studying just enough to be around the average score, or in other words, enough not to fail. yet now, you were stripped away of what little valuable free time to “go beyond your so-called limits”.
as the weight of books press against sore arms, your stumbling legs seem to give up, bumping into anything you come across.
you only had sheer will on your side to help navigate through the halls, which failed. miserably. from stubbing your toe on lockers, getting your shirt stuck on door handles,... it feels like this was a torture course designed specifically for a “bad example”.
who knows how many times your arms switched between different positions, trying to find the most comfortable one before ultimately crashing down on a corner to rearrange.
while ensuring the stack was perfectly aligned, sounds of familiarly firm steps approaching made you freeze. oh no, anyone but him—
“ah, [name]. your clumsiness applies outside academics too?”
each second of turning around is agonizing, your gaze lands on his feet, then slowly glares up at the absolute specimen of a man (obviously not in a good way!). is he even considered a man?
alhaitham. top student, ranked first on the scoreboard every single test, corrects everyone’s mistakes so often that the best professors get offended by his mere presence.
oh, can’t forget: he’s also the guy who gets love letters stuffed in his locker daily, girls in school throwing themselves at him. what’s so interesting?! he has the emotional availability of a brick.
you’re ready to make a run for it, anything to get away from this situation — his towering figure, his prying eyes scanning you like a mockery. everything about him is sickening!
…before he crouches down to pick up your mess, shoving it back into your arms with a smug look that clearly states he’s doing you a favor. “careful now, wouldn’t want you losing both books and braincells.”
well, now “thank you” doesn’t feel so deserving to leave your mouth anymore.
“i don’t need the help.”
“stubborn as ever, huh? finally been assigned some work to do?” his smirk is so irritatingly self-satisfied that you have to resist throwing the entire stack of books at his head.
still, there’s no point in dealing with this. it’s pathetic — he’s pathetic!
you are about to turn on your heel and leave the scholar behind, when a stern female voice calls out.
“ah, alhaitham! there you are. perfect, you’re both here. can you try tutoring [name] for the test?”
what?
surely the professor must mean someone else. right?
you whip around, eyes wide in horror. “him? tutoring me?”
“this has to be a joke.” the man— sorry, guy, adds, voice flat. he actually finds himself agreeing with you for the very first time.
“why not let someone else have the opportunity? i’m sure there’s people who would love it.”
your emphasis makes him want to snarl in disgust. he’d rather tutor you than receive another love letter, which is a surprising thing to admit.
“mistake?” the professor raises a brow. “you’re top of the class! [name] is well… not. who better to help them pass finals? actual high grades this time, not barely above average.”
you stumble back as if you had been gravely injured. there’s practically a funeral march happening in the distance.
“i expect you two at the school library after class.”
and she leaves. ever so calmly, completely oblivious to the fact that she just destroyed your will to live.
“great.” — not really. the word leaves alhaitham’s mouth, those challenging eyes looking over at you.
“stop playing the victim already.”
“oh, not me. it’s you who got assigned to work with someone out of your league in studies.”
the grip on your books gets tighter. “i’d rather fail.”
“don’t tempt me.”
he’s just teasing you at this point, even as his voice drops. where’s the usual stoic, cold and indifferent facade now?!?
sitting beside the top student is definitely not how you expected your week to go. or month. or entire academic life, for that matter.
the long wooden table stretches like a battlefield, leaving you as a fidgeting, frustrated and flustered mess.
on the other side sat alhaitham, already flipping through many pages. eyebrows furrowing as if it is a most difficult, arduous job. “mm, let’s see which one is easiest to start with…”
you immediately reach out a hand, pulling the book away from him. “what do you mean easy? i’m fine on my own, y’know.”
“sure. seeing you once again placed last, exactly a hundred and ten ranks below me… will be quite interesting.” by that he means, humiliating.
his attempt at downplaying the situation doesn't help — your mouth is left agape. every single syllable put together has offended you and your lineage personally. oh, the smirk. the mischievous smirk slowly creeping up. he knows he won.
or so he thinks.
for the next second he looks at you, wanting to see that priceless reaction, he is met with the sight of your face hovering inches above the paper, fingers gripping a pen tightly while carefully scanning through every word. “seriously? you think burying your nose in books is gonna launch you a hundred ranks overnight?”
much to your pride, you completely ignore him, eyes twitching at every paragraph of literature you managed to comprehend.
the scholar sighs, his fingers jumping over your wrist like cartoon characters, having them just in front of you.
so he could flick your forehead.
“at least put your head up a little higher, otherwise it’s bad for you.”
you scoff, yet find yourself subconsciously following (and blushing), your mind no longer dozing off.
he is so blatantly arrogant about getting you to listen to him, it’s kinda cute…
wait, what?
you blink, not once. not twice.
still the same face sitting across from you, not even trying to hide his gaze. “what?” he drawls.
your head jerks back down. “nothing.”
“you stared.”
“i didn’t.”
“your ears are red.”
“it’s hot in here!”
the library’s air conditioning is running just fine, but alhaitham won’t mention anything about it.
he is going to mention something about your reddening self though.
“if your brain’s working as hard as your cheeks are at heating up,” he muses, “you might pass with a solid eighty.”
your fist trembles in rage. “you haven’t been doing your job tutoring me. this would count as failing to meet prof’s orders.”
“so you want me to actually tutor you?” “what? no!—”
too late for protests now. he leans in closer, the pen between his fingers spinning with theatrical precision. so smooth, so practiced…
you momentarily forget how to breathe. and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“impressed?”
“mm.”
visibly so. you won’t show it though, he can’t get the satisfaction!
“well… if you score higher than me in finals, i’ll teach you.”
your eyes shoot up. “there’s no way that’s happening” is a thought shared between both of you, only in slightly different tones.
did he just challenge you?
your stubborn self wanted to refuse, because who would want to be taught by an egomaniac?!? (...maybe you stretched the description a little too far.)
“deal.”
and you also agree a little too fast, not even able to register your thoughts — of how cool you’d be.
who cares? you’re determined to make alhaitham remember every moment of realizing you've bested him, being put at a rank higher than him on the gold framed board, the smirk on his face disappearing when he teaches you the pen tricks as a bonus, like a sore loser forced to give a trophy.
thus beginning your villain origin story. (it’s basically a one sided war… but we don’t say that!)
i. mission: try to have inner peace. level: impossible.
“is it just me, or has [name] been acting weird?”
“yeah, finals don’t start until three months later.”
you stay glued to your seat, ears tuned in on the conversation, a cold sweat forming as they talk about you. and alhaitham. together.
was it that obvious?!? was the villain arc that transparent?!?!
…or are they talking about how you laughed a bit much the other day with him?
“do you think they’re dating alhaitham?”
what now!?
you shouldn’t care. you don’t care.
he’s so infuriatingly smug, you hate it! the way his head tilts when he’s about to deliver a particularly sharp jab, the predictable rhythm of his sarcasm while looking kinda unfairly attractive, and those stupid moves, and— and—
oh no. you let out a sigh, as if you have never had these thoughts.
scratch all that! he doesn’t mean anything to you…
…right?
in your usual 24/7 routine, you study for 25/8.
stuck between thesis lines and mathematical equations, every meal would come with a book by your side, recess would be you sitting in a corner to revise.
your professors are shocked. concerned, to say the least. a student that they used to underestimate, now having no social interactions simply to prove a certain top ranker wrong.
okay, no social interactions would be a lie. there is still alhaitham sitting next to you, briefly summarizing the chapter while occasionally doing those pen tricks again, reminding you of your motivation.
but really? you just want to see him absolutely devastated.
“you get it now?”
“i got it before you muttered a word.”
he chuckles, a doubtful glint in his eyes. understandably so.
you try to focus back on the book, wanting to read ahead to prove a point — a nonexistent one.
then your gaze landed on his face.
wait. why does he suddenly look ethereal again? those sharp features highlighted by the warm sunlight as his soft smile seems so genuine…
no— no! why are you even gawking at such an unbearably indifferent guy?!?
“is there something on my face?”
“huh—? nothing. yeah, nothing.”
you weren’t staring. you were observing. two completely different things.
ii. pettiness? i prefer the term competitiveness.
there is not a single empty seat in the entire library. everyone happens to suddenly care about studying when exams are vaguely mentioned.
no choice left, you trudge to a far off cafe, backpack weighing heavy like it could collapse on you at any minute.
the bell chimes above your head as you walk in, chest flickering with hope.
it gets extinguished immediately.
full. every. single. table.
you exhale through your nose, ready to give up and just go study in wild nature. when a flash of ashen hair catches your eye.
no… the universe can't possibly hate you this much!
alhaitham sits in a corner, headphones on, textbook open — he looks too at peace. you want to ruin that, for whatever reason.
“excuse me!” a voice chirps from the distance. it’s a waitress smiling, though her exhaustion is evident. “sorry, we’re currently full. maybe try—”
“no, it’s fine.” you cut her off, feeling almost bad for it. in all honesty, you’ve already tried all the spots there are.
but, it seems she noticed the way you were staring at that seat.
“do you know him?” ‘uh— huh?”
she doesn’t even wait. “great! go ahead, i’ll bring water over.”
before you have the chance to flee, you’re being ushered across the cafe, straight into his personal bubble.
he glares at you upon the sound of your bag dropping onto the floor. “stalking me now?”
you grumble, regretting every life decision which led to this. “don’t flatter yourself. the waitress practically threw me here.”
“and you didn’t resist?”
“at least it’s better than sitting outside.”
he lets out a scoff. “oh? usually you’d prefer doing anything else but get near me.”
underneath the table, your fist clenches. does he want you to pass out under the hot, scorching sun?!?
“shut up, will you?”
“you’re the one who sat here.”
“unwillingly!”
“sure.”
you groan, resisting the urge to dunk your head in the complimentary water the waitress brought over. you’re sure all eyes are on you at that moment because of your constant bickering — he’s the one being annoying, though!
for a minute, neither of you speak. only the gentle lofi music playing in the background.
okay, okay. you murmur to yourself. maybe, if you focus hard enough, you can pretend he isn’t here—
flip.
the pages of his book rustle as he turns them lazily, shattering your illusion.
“are you actually going to study?” he asks, not looking at you, “or just here to ogle me again?” you nearly choke on your drink. “again?!”
“no? your ears are red.”
why does he have to be so observant? why does he have to be so right?
“you’re insufferable.”
“you didn’t say i was wrong.”
it takes everything in you not to punch him, splash water at him, anything to get him to stop teasing talking. but, no. you have to distract yourself somehow…
his notebook.
“there’s a mistake.”
alhaitham glances over, unimpressed. “doubt it.”
“page eleven, second line. ‘principle’ spelled the moral kind, not the scientific one.”
you can’t deny the contentment you feel stirring in your chest as his brow twitches.
“...it’s a typo.”
“you wrote it by hand.”
“a typo.”
you bring the cup’s rim to your lips, chuckling. “i guess even top students can make mistakes.”
“you talk a lot for someone who just noticed a tiny one.” how you love the sound of his groan, refusing to admit the error.
“i’m just saying, maybe you do need a tutor.”
“or maybe i’m catching up to you.”
you half expect a snarky counter, a sarcastic quip or a smug smirk from him. instead, he stares blankly at you. a little too long. seems like your words managed to wedge themselves between his usual defenses. “hm.” he hums at last, relief washing over you. for barely a heartbeat. “keep talking like that and people will start thinking we’re dating.”
you freeze, palms getting sweatier. what.
“what does that mean?!”
“you’re the one who’s flirting.”
“since when?” “your ears are red.”
you slam your hand down the table. it hurts, but you can’t let yourself complain about it. “perhaps because it’s rage induced!”
he smirks, still scribbling with his ugly handwriting. “whatever helps you sleep at night.”
you swear he winked at you.
before you can retort however, a barista passes by, a grin forming on her face. “you two are adorable, like a married couple!”
she says it so casually, placing extra snacks down as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
your soul slowly leaves your body. judging from his expression, his does too.
“we’re not!” “we’re not.” — you and alhaitham chime in unison.
her eyes squint, “oh, no worries, darlings. i won’t tell.”
you sip your drink. calmly. unsure whether to thank her or combust.
the scholar sitting across clears his throat, flipping another page. “if you’re done being embarrassed, we have two chapters to cover.”
“how could she even mistake such a thing?!” though, your mind is still stuck on the topic. you can’t be the only one!
“statistically speaking,” he says, rubbing his chin. is this going to be one of his nerdy moments again? “people mistake tension for compatibility.”
yes. yes it is.
“are you saying we have tension?”
“are you saying we don’t?”
the barista snickers, cleaning a table not too far from you.
as if trying to spare you both from going insane (or maybe just a manner of distraction), he throws his notes at you. “revise. i’ll be checking if you remember them later.”
the slightest tinge of red dusts his cheeks. you’re definitely not letting this go.
“aww, you care.”
“i do. hurry.”
surely he doesn’t mean it like that. obviously. not like you want to know anyway! — it’s not like you’re waiting for his approval or something…
iii. emotional support coffee? please?
the quiet hum of the library fills the space around you: pages turning, pens clicking, gentle whispers of study mates revising together, with the occasional cough of someone deep in their homework.
you get comfortable in the usual corner seat near the window, pillow against your back for comfort and pastel pink highlighter in hand.
suddenly, a flutter of paper lands squarely on your open notes, making you flinch out of your own little world.
alhaitham stands over you, arms crossing over his chest like he has been waiting to deliver this all day.
“eighty nine.”
you blink. not at the bold, underlined red ink. but how his gaze holds a hint of disappointment. “wait, what?”
“i figured you’d want to know.”
“you corrected it?” your eyes scan the sheet.
“obviously.” he scoffs, “after a month, i expected better.”
that… stings.
he knows it does.
your lips part. they tremble, just a bit. “...eighty nine isn’t good enough now?”
he turns slightly. you swear you see guilt in his eyes. “it’s passable.”
“...fine.” you can’t bring yourself to utter more. not with the tightness in your throat.
you hate it, looking away before he could see how your expression cracked. “thanks for the push, i guess.”
his presence lingers a while longer. however, as he was about to leave… you heard it — barely above a whisper.
“don’t burn out.”
then, a breath.
“and don’t give me a reason to worry.”
…yeah, whatever that’s supposed to mean.
after that “incident”, the tutoring sessions now seem nothing more than a mere nuisance. not like they weren’t to begin with, but your excuses for skipping are endless.
“i’m busy today.”
“i’m tired.”
“i… forgot.”
alhaitham puts up with them all the time. he has to, right? if anything, he should be overjoyed from “not having to see your annoying face”, as he puts it.
yet, why are his words laced with reluctance every time? why does it feel like a punishment when you’re called to the front desk?
“moving forward,” the student council’s president peers over his glasses, “your tutoring lessons will be logged. location, time, duration — everything. this is a faculty order.”
“what?”
“alhaitham has already been informed. attendance is mandatory.”
his tone is as flat as ever, emphasizing “mandatory” as if you’re a delinquent in academic probation.
you walk out of the office stunned, barely noticing the printed timetable almost slip from your hand.
same slot, same person. there’s no escaping this now.
and the tuition just so conveniently happens to be scheduled right after class.
you arrive late on purpose. not too late, but enough that your footsteps echo in the quiet hallway louder than you’d like. your head is heavy from the migraine you never quite shook off.
this isn’t how you imagined spending your afternoon.
hand on the knob, you gently click the door open, trying to carefully sneak your way in without startling him…
“five minutes late.”
you fail.
he’s already seated, arms crossed, eyes on the clock. waiting for you.
you fling your bag down against one of the table’s metal legs, the clank louder than you meant it to be. “are you going to log that too?”
it’s as clear as day to anyone that you are still annoyed, maybe even upset, at what occurred the other day.
he doesn’t answer immediately, sliding a familiar notebook across the desk. “page five. we’re starting with derivatives today.”
you plop down the chair, deliberately scooting further away from him. for apparent reasons. “you look tired.” “isn’t that obvious?”
the silence sits heavy — the very silence that is always a barrier between you two. it presses like a fog, thick with words neither of you dare speak aloud.
alhaitham doesn’t look at you, simply reaching the edge of the notebook, his movements calculated. mechanical, even.
his expression is unreadable, save for the slight twitch at his jaw — the kind which appears only when he’s trying not to react. he keeps his eyes on the wall, the clock. anywhere, just not on you.
but his fingers hover over the notes a moment too long, his arm casually swung over your chair like it’s another ordinary day.
it is excruciating. he should say something. he knows he should.
“…look, if it’s about what i said, i’m sorry.”
the line came out in a carelessness that he doesn’t mean. you merely give a huff in response.
“i mean it.”
you finally look up, your glare holding more softness instead of the irritation you want it to have. “if this is guilt, it’s not working.”
“it’s not guilt—!” he slaps a hand over his face, not knowing whether to be vexed or puzzled.
for your sake, it probably should be the latter.
“i don’t want you to fall behind.”
“sure.” you lean back, voice clipped, “wouldn’t want your perfect record tarnished because of your idiot student, right?”
the jab lands a blow to his heart. much heavier and painful than he expects.
“this is about you. not me.”
you whip your head in his direction, earning a chuckle of relief before— before—
before you find yourself lost in his eyes.
though, his voice managed to keep you tethered back to earth, snapping you out of your trance.
“[name], i genuinely want to help you. there’s no gain for me here.”
you’re hallucinating, right? because there’s no way alhaitham of all people is the one saying this.
“seeing you in your full potential… that’s rewarding enough to me.”
you sneer. is this even alhaitham anymore?
yet, you can’t lie: you feel the tight knot coiling around your chest for the past few days slowly unraveling, allowing your pent up emotions and somewhat hatred to run freely.
“you don’t talk this way.” you mutter, lowering your gaze, “it’s weird.”
“is that such a problem? the only problem i’m seeing here is you still being behind on your derivatives.”
ah, now that sounds more like the dumb scholar you know.
the faint smile on his face after you barely let out a laugh is something hard to ignore. a sight so rare — you’re witnessing a natural phenomenon.
he notices your stare. of course he does.
“well? get to work. make the final two months count.”
you roll your eyes, lightly tossing the pen down purely to mock him. “don’t think this means i like you.”
he laughs so heartily, you don’t think he believes it.
he doesn’t.
iv. one upmanship in coincidence?! (i think not!)
“aren’t they always together now?”
“right?! i saw him outside of their class waiting yesterday.”
“he smiles at them too! alhaitham. smiles.”
“what??? jealous…”
you haven’t even taken your seat yet when you heard it, fingers instinctively clutching onto your backpack tighter.
the eyes of girls around you follow your every movement, sending constant shivers down your spine. what, after you slightly interact with their crush, they start considering your presence?!? absolutely ridiculous—
“heyyy [name]... you’ve been having fun with y’know… alhaitham, huh?”
if this is similar to any movie you’ve watched, the student in front of you will probably punch you in the next five minutes at most.
“um…”
thank the heavens above though, as—
BAM.
—as the professor barges into the classroom, halting any noise and chatter. the girl could only grumble her way back to her seat. “project pairings.” announced flatly, along with a folder slammed against the teacher’s desk, making half the room jump. “this is worth twenty five percent of your final grade.”
you don’t even have time to process before the worst sentence that has ever been uttered in the whole universe rings in your ear.
“[name] and alhaitham.”
as the pairings keep being spat out with insane speed, the class is still stuck on the first one — [name] and alhaitham.
whispers are continuously shared, accusations of you and him having tampered with the list. who has time for that, seriously?! no, not that, but who would want to be in his team?!?
“the deadline is the end of this month.” and just like so, the prof leaves as if he didn’t ruin the rest of your time in academic life. literally, this time.
still, twenty five percent? worth a lot, especially to you if you want to learn those pen tricks (which, very clearly, you do.)
“we have to work together? …again?”
here you are. sitting in front of him. again.
he doesn’t say anything when you arrive at the usual library corner, just nods and slides a note toward you.
to say you understand a word is a lie.
it is practically all scribbles and drafts, all pointing to the circle in the middle.
“you call this a plan?” your hate for him grows stronger, or is it actually hate?
“it’s doable.”
“hardly.”
“if you focus.”
you flip the note to see the back. right, there’s more. obviously. what else do you expect from him? “was that a jab?”
he doesn't deny it.
“whatever.” you slouch down on the wooden chair, pen outlining what seemed like rough sketches. “you already planned this much?”
“procrastination isn’t efficient.”
“didn’t you just call me inefficient?”
he hums — oh so self satisfyingly and irritatingly! — neither a refusal nor a confirmation.
the first few minutes are silent. normally, you’d concentrate better in such a quietude, but now? it’s frustrating, as if he is watching every stroke of pencil while you are trying to make the note look more… presentable.
meanwhile, alhaitham presses away on his calculator, his finger pushing hard on each button. if you don’t know better, you would’ve thought he has a generational dispute with this device.
this doesn’t feel hostile. not exactly so, but more of a truce. begrudging and unspoken.
“that formula’s wrong.” he points his finger to the line. you were about to fix it yourself anyway!
you grumble lightly. “right.”
suddenly, you hear hushed whispers. the weight of someone’s gaze long before you look up.
and sure enough, a cluster of girls loitered near the bookshelf across from you, not even bothering to pretend they aren’t spying.
are they waiting to catch you slipping or hoping for alhaitham to glance their way? you don’t know, neither do you care.
yet, the hovering of his hand over your knuckles feels intentional.
it is.
his head turns, sharp eyes locking onto them without a word. they soon scrambled like startled birds, giggling as they vanished down the hallway.
“...they keep doing that and it’ll be considered against the library’s rules.”
“mm.”
pause.
“[name]. you okay?”
the question is unexpected. so is the softness in his voice. well, what are you supposed to say to him now? with that pretty face of his?
you blink. “yeah, just tired.”
he taps his nails against the desk twice, then slowly pulls the note before you away, replacing it with his instead.
“here, this part’s yours. if you want to draft it while i finalize the proposal, we’ll be done faster.”
palm reaching the note, you raise an eyebrow. “you’re letting me write your section?”
“you’re capable.”
your chest tightens. not because it sounds sarcastic.
but because it’s the first time those words ever leave his mouth.
for once, the silence isn’t heavy.
it’s calming. productive.
somewhere between outlining the data table and trading half hearted insults, you realize…
this might actually work.
well, that is if you don’t catch yourself staring at him.
v. a team? no, we’re still enemies!
nearly an entire month — you pulling all nighters, hardly eating anything, not even taking breaks… just to finish your part of the project.
rewriting sections, organizing slides, adjusting the structure. the list seems endless. eventually, your head droops over your textbooks, a hand dragging over your cheek, sighs getting longer than your sentences.
alhaitham doesn’t comment. at first.
but after watching you redo the same bullet point for the third time? he can’t.
his voice, strangely quiet and steady. “you’re not going to finish if you burn out in a corner, [name].”
“don’t tell me what to do.” you mumble, though your head feels like it weighs thousands of pounds.
the silence stretches between you.
“take a break,” he gently slides the pen out of your grip, the back of his hand instinctively reaching your forehead to check your temperature.
instinctively, he tells himself.
you look up, eyes squinted as you can barely make up his face anymore. “what’s the point of this…?”
“no point. you’re just—” he frowns, brushing your hair out of your face. instinctively, “—less annoying when you’re not sleep deprived.”
you huff, convinced that he’s lying. though, before you have time to respond, your head already fell to nestle between your arms, soul slipping away into slumber…
alhaitham pulls the note from under your grasp, eyes skimming through it.
a proud smirk playing on his lips.
“...you’ve done well.”
in a not so sneaky way, he tosses a snack bar and fruit cup into your bag — along with a note.
“you’re useless to me if you faint like this. take care.”
students are panicking. papers are rustling.
the teacher was giving some speech about grading rubrics, how important “twenty five percent” is and what it’s equivalent to.
for the first time, you find yourself rolling your eyes at those words, as you kinda already calculated all the possibilities that might affect your score.
alhaitham sits next to you “against his own will” (he said so). there’s a tension between you — something in attitude. in the competitive fire that’s been building up for weeks.
the index cards tremble in your hands, eyes can’t be brought to take another glance down at the keywords you’ve prepared, color coded on his insistence.
“didn’t you spend a month of all nighters on this?” his tone sounds like a mockery in which you could only huff in response, fingers clutching and rolling the cards tighter.
the scholar sighs. his ideal of reassurance probably won’t get you anywhere, plus it’s not like he wants to randomly comfort you! even if he does, it’s for the project’s sake!
well — slides ready, brain processing… not really. it’s go time.
you glance at alhaitham as he flies through the topic, transitions slick and minimal. of course they are.
his voice is firm with each bullet point he speaks, drawing a few nods from the class every now and then. especially from the girls who are very enthusiastic about it.
he’s being all smug. again.
and so you follow. your precision so sharp and articulate, you completely forget about your anxiety moments ago.
you’re sure you outshine him.
soon enough, it becomes an unspoken game of applause grabbing. more like a debate than cooperation.
with every unexpected statistic you drop, he smoothly counters using a surprising connection to real world events.
with every gesture he makes toward a well designed visual, you sweep in to cite quotes that conveniently slipped his mind.
the others? they’re intrigued, absolutely hooked on your so called “presentation” — it’s like watching a movie. two students locked in a battle for academic dominance while the audience starts whispering bets on who would get louder applause.
“interesting.” the professor nods eagerly, “that was thorough. now tell me— based on everything you’ve researched, which argument do you actually agree with? and why?”
you both freeze.
not because you don’t have an opinion. no, you definitely do… just not together.
your eyes flickered between the slides and your “partner”. neither of you speak up.
the pause stretches long enough to get awkward, before it gets broken.
“we don’t exactly agree,” he says evenly. “i personally find the first argument more convincing, but i’ll let [name] speak for themself.”
your grip on the index cards tightens, one of them falling from your palm.
there is no smug look, no hidden edge to his voice. he’s merely offering you space, trusting you to carry it forward.
“well…”
all eyes are on you.
“i think both arguments have merit. but what stands out to me is how the second argument addresses personal autonomy. not just in theory, but in people’s lives and choices. it acknowledges imperfection, and i think that’s important.”
no rambles, no overcompensation. you simply say what you mean.
beside you, he just nods. as if he expected that from you.
only then does the class start clapping.
it feels… real. earned.
“aren’t they supposed to hate each other?”
“do you think they’re actually dating…?”
the prof orders to halt the comments and cheers, looking over at you with a smile. a soft yet genuine smile on his face.
you know he’s proud about pairing you and alhaitham.
“alright, good. sit down.”
all you have to do now? wait for the results! and continue studying of course. but most importantly?
pray you get full points so you can learn those cool pen tricks. though that doesn’t seem like the main motive anymore…
vi. the final burnout speedrun (you’re not fine).
you glance at your desk calendar.
one week left before finals.
you can’t begin to recount how many times you’ve crashed out over the past month. everything’s a headache — perhaps those late nights are finally catching up to you.
notes looking like chicken scraps, formulas looking like they doubled in quantity each time you blink. the extra burden of a tutor who’s fixed on making every study session feels like a war has broken out is weighing heavily on your shoulders.
today, you’re sure: you are slowly losing. and alhaitham notices.
“you misspelled this.” he taps on your annotated worksheet. “i know.”
“then why haven’t you corrected it yet?”
you dig your fingers into your temple. must you ramble on and on about the story of your life to get him to understand?
“because i haven’t slept in two days, i’m running on half a meal, and if i read that sentence one more time, i’m going to throw myself out the window.”
quiet. not the usual offensive one you’d get after snapping at him. it’s different — one you can’t name.
you swallow, “...i won’t be able to beat you. you knew that from the start.”
he doesn’t tease you. doesn’t roll his eyes and say you’re at fault.
instead… suddenly cross the room and return with a chilled water bottle and some leftover curry rice.
“what—?”
“eat. it’s not much, but it’ll fuel you for the time being. then we’ll start over.”
“you serious?”
he doesn’t answer, just nudges the meal closer to you. acting like he didn’t just do something startlingly kind.
maybe that’s the strangest part.
you peel off the saran wrap, voice low. “sometimes i forget you’re actually a decent human being.”
“it’s hard to maintain the illusion with you whining in my ear.”
you scoff, bringing the spoonful up to your mouth. it’s stupid how good it tastes when someone remembers to feed you. and it’s him out of all people. “no need for compliments. hurry up and i’ll teach you one of my memory tricks.”
you’d think he’s trying to play the hero, or at least hint at something — why else would he be so abnormally nice? oh, next thing you know he’s down on one knee and confessing his undying love while always having to sweep in to save you like you’re in distress, so desperately in need of his help—
…okay, seems like your mind’s going places again. you don’t care. you don’t!
vii. rivalry.exe has stopped responding.
the hallway is buzzing with excitement, students running to gather around the announcement board, practically dragging you along with them.
you’re still groggy from last night’s horrible sleep, barely being able to register everything. though, you know exactly what you’re looking for.
eyes flicking through name after name, scanning down the ranks… you see it.
“top 1: alhaitham”
he placed higher. can it be anyone but him?
unexpectedly, your stomach doesn’t twist the way it used to. no such thing as resentment, no bitter coil in your throat. only a quiet exhale as your gaze slides down, finding your own name not far below.
“top 5: [name]”
you have sworn to beat him with every late night, every tutoring session, every accidental brush of hands across paper notes.
you swore you’d win.
now, standing before the gold framed board that used to haunt you in your sleep back then? all you can think is:
you didn’t lose. not at all.
just a shame you won’t be able to learn anything more from him.
…
after a while, the hallway turns silent. save for the muffled cheers echoing from the school yard.
you sit at the bottom step of the staircase, knees drawn up and arms slung over them, chin resting on your wrist.
it still doesn’t feel real — your name being so close to the top, a stark contrast to the usual “top 110th” you’d typically receive.
footsteps click softly against the polished floor as you fiddle with your shoe laces.
you don’t look up. you know it’s him.
“the project results are out.”
his shadow stands at the edge of your vision, your eyes following the outline. “you sound happy. did we get the maximum?”
“with our teamwork? of course we did.”
“and… are you here to gloat or something?”
“hm? no, i thought you’d be here.”
the admission catches you off guard, finally getting you to look up at the scholar. sunlight appears nice on his skin…
“you did well. if it’s because of the pen tricks… i’ll still teach you.”
“you won’t.”
“i know.”
you roll your eyes, yet find them stick to his face instead. he seems too smug for someone who didn’t immediately go brag about his score.
there was something else in his expression — softer, not in rivalry or pride.
“i thought i’d feel more triumphant…”
“...but i kept looking for your name.”
he sits down beside you without waiting for permission nor an invitation, maintaining a distance that’s just close enough.
“you’ve always taken this seriously,” he murmured. “i did too. but somewhere along the way, i think i started chasing something else.”
you tilt your head, eyebrows slightly knitted. “what?”
your brain stalls — short circuits, even. all the noise inside your head, from each rebuttal to each equation,... goes dead silent.
alhaitham continues, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. on purpose this time. “you frustrated me to no extent. i used to think it was just a competition… but it stopped being that a while ago.”
you rub your nose, avoiding any sort of eye contact. seriously, how are you supposed to do so in such a situation?!
still, you know you have to get it over with. no beating around the bush.
only a pure heart laid bare.
“so… what, are you saying you like me or something?”
alhaitham’s emotions freeze with his muses.
for just a second, you swear he’s about to say yes.
he blinks, the faintest furrow between his brows. “no. i’m saying… you got under my skin. that’s all.”
his words leave a clean cut in a spot you thought you’ve always protected. you can only blame yourself, right? for being ever so foolish? for accidentally feeling something that is supposed to be nonexistent?
yet his touch lingers against the back of your hand, as if trying to mend the wound he’s caused.
“right,” you laugh, short enough to sound believable.
pushing yourself off the stairs and away from him, you make your way out the sunlit halls.
well… graduation’s coming up, you can’t let yourself be down because of one specific person, right?
…right?
two weeks straight. you busy yourself with whatever’s available in school — fixing classrooms’ decorations, helping out clubs, tutoring anxious juniors for their next year, tying up loose ends,...
that doesn’t necessarily mean everyone though.
of course, you’re doing all of this to avoid no one else but him. you feel his gaze everywhere, lurking in the shadows like a ghost. even your friends are left unsettled.
you swear he’s stalking you.
so when you show up on graduation day, you are also praying to the heavens above not to let him notice you.
your eyes scan the atmosphere while fingers clutch tightly on your cap, trying hard not to disassociate (which is really difficult).
the courtyard is a sea of caps and gowns, voices echoing through the corridors. cameras click, friends yell each others’ names, faint music hums beside your ear. you should be laughing, smiling, catching up, reminiscing about old times,... instead, you keep catching your own gaze darting everywhere, looking for him.
beneath the old flame tree’s shade, you scrawl a cursive signature across the back of your classmate’s uniform, blue marker moving elegantly against the fabric.
farewell wishes shared and photos taken, they run off toward another group.
“you’re popular all of a sudden.”
that voice — unmistakably low and smooth.
you glance over your shoulder to find alhaitham — hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, beads of sweat rolling down his temples from searching for you in the crowd.
“it’s called being sociable,” the marker capped with a sharp click. “not like you’d know anything about it.”
a curve tugs at the corner of his lips. “hm, and if i asked you to sign mine?” surely, he’s humoring you?
“what?” — you know that’s not what he wants.
“you’ve signed everyone else’s. it’s only fair.”
your palm strained imperceptibly. “you don’t want that.”
“true. i don’t.”
his gaze flickers briefly to the falling petals, then to the blue cap sticking out of your fist.
he can’t deny: he still wants your name poised delicately on the center of his white shirt.
“just… let me talk to you for a minute.”
“now? you couldn’t wait until after i’m done?”
“no.”
you’re hoping he’ll take the hint.
but who is he if he’s not as blunt as ever?
“listen. if i don’t say this now, i’ll regret it.”
you scoff, try to at least. the memory of you misunderstanding the whole situation now seems far worse than it did back then. “you’re being dramatic.”
“not really.”
“...fine. go on.”
he exhales, the tone of his voice making him sound like a distressed puppy.
technically, he is.
“i like you. more than i care to admit. i may have denied it out of cowardice, i know i shouldn’t have… and i’d rather you hear it from me now. before we go on separate paths.”
the weight of his words feels absurdly small in comparison to your pounding heart.
“you can take your time answering,” he adds, as if sensing your skepticism.
but really? you’re simply taking it in. processing. attempt to. “idiot… you’re terrible at timing.”
“better than never saying it.”
a nod. he’s right after all.
and you don’t think you’d have this moment any other way.
epilogue. plot twist before the bell rings.
“wait wait, do that again!”
your eyes are stuck on the movements of his fingers, the pen swinging around with such precision, swiftly landing on every gap, every knuckle of his hand.
“it’s all about control. and you have terrible form.”
what did he say?!?
you lightly smacked his forearm, earning a teasing chuckle — another way of saying “i’m better than you” (lovingly of course).
“take that back.”
he clicks his tongue, leaning forward to take your hand in his. if anyone were to walk in, you’d be haunted for the rest of your life. in a good way. probably.
under his guidance, the pen spins smoothly this time, effortlessly even. you glance up at him in surprise.
your breath slowly easing against his jawline.
“see? it’s not impossible.”
“you’re just a show off.”
“correct.”
he subconsciously wraps an arm around your waist, lips pressing on your ear.
as if whispering, “we’ll meet again.”