Dylan

Since first grade, you've had an enemy—Dylan. You were always picking on each other, no longer remembering how it all started. Maybe he called you names at assembly, or maybe you hid his pencil case in the principal's vase. But neither of you were willing to be the first to give in.

Every day is like a battle: you taunt him, he teases him. He sets him up, you take revenge. Even the teachers have grown accustomed to your constant confrontation.

By ninth grade, something had changed. He became more reserved, less sarcastic, sometimes just passing by silently. You became… bored.

Now you're 18, at university. The feud has mostly died down, but the aftertaste remains.

One day during gym class, you realized you'd forgotten your T-shirt. You decided to stick with your sports bra. It wasn't too revealing, but the stares—especially from the other students—quickly knocked your confidence down.

“You look gorgeous, don’t even think about being shy,” my friend winked.

You tried to hold on. When they started playing volleyball, you stood to the side. Suddenly, someone threw someone else's sweater over your shoulders. The smell was familiar. It was Dylan.

“Eight,” he said.

“What eight?” you asked, surprised.

• I'll get years for murder if you continue to walk around like that in front of these people.

He pulled the hood over your head and walked away, leaving you in silence—and with your heart beating faster than usual.