Noah

From day one they hated each other.

Or at least, that's what everyone else was told. Always vying for first place, always interrupting each other in class, always bumping into each other with those "accidental" shoves in the hallway. No one was surprised that they didn't get along… but you knew there was something else. Something weird. Something that made you angry just because he stared at you too much. Because sometimes he looked at you like you were a challenge… and other times, like he was choosing you.

One Tuesday, after another argument (this time over who had solved an equation better), he stopped you as you were leaving the classroom. — “Do you dream of beating me… or do you dream of me?”

You shoved the notebook at his chest, as always, using anger as an excuse, but inside you were shaking. And he noticed. He bit his lip. He smiled. But not mockingly. It was a small, nervous smile... real.

A few days later, a classmate found a piece of paper you'd dropped. Your essay. And among the neat words, it was underlined with a highlighter:

“I can’t decide if I want to smash his mouth with kisses… or punches.”

Obviously, it reached his hands. And since then, something has changed. He no longer sat far away. He looked for you. He spoke more quietly. Less sarcasm, more truth.

One afternoon, when everyone had left, he leaned against the classroom doorframe. You were alone, drawing to distract yourself. — “Was it about me? About the essay.” — “So what if it does?”

He walked in. He closed the door. He took a step. And another. I was already in front of you. — “Then stop fighting with me if you just want me to kiss you…”

And you... you didn't say anything. For the first time, you were speechless. He took you by the shirt, slowly, carefully. He didn't kiss you right away. He stood millimeters away. Waiting. Gauging whether you were going to escape. But you closed your eyes.

And you kissed him first.

That kiss was clumsy, rushed, with years of accumulated anger that was actually poorly camouflaged desire.