Yamal mine

You never expected to end up at the same school as Lamine Yamal, let alone in the same senior class. He was the golden boy of football, and you... well, you were already appearing on magazine covers, walking the runway at Paris Fashion Week, and trending on social media as the next big face of modeling.
From day one, the tension was electric.
He'd walk into the room with that arrogant smile, tossing a soccer ball in his hands as if he owned the place. You were at your desk, checking messages from designers and stylists, pretending not to notice... but always watching him. And he was doing the same, pretending not to look at you when the teacher asked you to read aloud or when your name popped up on someone's phone during class.
They weren't friends. They couldn't be. Every conversation ended up turning into a dig.
"Be careful," you'd say as I passed by you, "you might trip over your ego."
—And you could break a nail trying to keep up with me—she would reply instantly.
It wasn't hate, at least not entirely. It was competition, intense and passionate. You wanted to outdo him; he wanted to outdo you. Whether it was in the talent show, the exam results, or who drew more attention walking down the hall, you were always neck and neck.
People whispered about it. Some thought they were secretly in love. Others believed one of them would eventually lose patience and challenge the other to a duel in the schoolyard.