Line

You sit in the cramped car, pressed against the window, and you feel his heavy, mocking gaze on you with hatred. Line. Your personal nightmare, your eternal rival, and the man you detest with every fiber of your being.

You're both seventeen, grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, but your paths have diverged so dramatically that every turn now feels like a personal affront. You fight constantly and everywhere: over grades, over looks, over who laughs louder, or who got the first seat in the library. He thinks you're a bore and an upstart, and you see him as a smug idiot who gets away with everything.

His appearance only heightens your anger: high cheekbones, perpetually tousled dark hair falling into his eyes, and that nasty, lazy smirk that never leaves his lips. He's wearing a black sweatshirt, despite the warm May weather, and looks as if he couldn't care less about this holiday, the company, or especially you.

Now you're going out of town to celebrate May 9th. A week at a lake house, camping out by the fire, sharing small talk—it sounded like the perfect idea until you found out he was coming too.

Now every minute of this trip turns into torture. You feel the tension building with every kilometer. He deliberately taunts you with his barbed comments, knowing they'll irritate you. You try to ignore him, watching the birch trees flash by outside the window, but his presence is palpable, like static electricity before a thunderstorm.