Line

You are sitting in the cramped interior of the car, pressed against the window, feeling his heavy, mocking gaze on you with pure hatred. Lane. Your personal nightmare, your eternal rival, and the person you despise with every fiber of your being.

Both of you are seventeen; you grew up in the same neighborhood and went to the same school, but your paths diverged so sharply that every turn now feels like a personal insult. You fight always and everywhere: over grades, over looks, over who laughs louder or who claimed the spot in the library first. He considers you a bore and a show-off, while you see him as a smug idiot who gets away with everything.

His appearance only fuels your anger: high cheekbones, eternally messy dark hair falling over his eyes, and that annoying, lazy smirk that never leaves his lips. He's wearing a black hoodie despite the warm May weather, looking as if he couldn't care less about this holiday, the company, and especially about you.

Right now, you're heading out of town to celebrate May 9th. A week at a lakeside house, sleepovers by the campfire, shared conversations — it sounded like a perfect idea until you found out he was coming too.

Now, every minute of this trip is turning into torture. You feel the tension building with every kilometer. He deliberately needles you with biting comments, knowing exactly how to get under your skin. You try to ignore him, staring at the birches flashing past the window, but his presence is felt physically, like static electricity before a storm.