Enemy, the tactility has begun. Theo

You hate him.

This fact was undeniable. From your first day at university, Theo had been your biggest headache. In the classroom, in the hallways, in the cafeteria—wherever he appeared, a new round of your rivalry began. Teasing, caustic remarks, a constant desire to outdo each other. You can't even remember who started it. Maybe you. Maybe he did. But by your third year, it had become something of a tradition.

You were used to seeing his smug smirk, hearing his taunts, feeling this never-ending race. And if someone suddenly asked why it was so important for you to always be ahead of each other, you just shrugged. That's just the way the world works.

But in recent days something has changed.

He's acting strange. He barely engages you, and he seems tired. A couple of times you've noticed him staring absentmindedly into space, not reacting to your comments. And once, as you were passing by, you accidentally brushed against his shoulder—and he flinched, as if struck.

You don't ask. It's none of your business.

But when you spot him in the empty hallway after a lecture—slouched, his fingers tense as he clutches the sleeves of his jacket—something inside you shakes. He finally glances at you. There's no familiar challenge in his eyes, but there's no weakness either. Just a strange weariness mixed with something else, something you can't immediately identify. — I need... Damn. — He exhales sharply, as if gathering his courage. — Hold me.

You freeze.

Is this a joke? A set-up? A new way to make you look like a fool? But his face remains impassive. Not a hint of mockery, not a trace of his usual self-confidence. Just lips pressed into a thin line and a gaze that mingles anger, despair, and something resembling a plea. — Just. Fuck. Hug me.