It was supposed to be a normal debate competition. Two schools. One championship title. A standard intellectual battle of logic, rhetoric, and strategy.

And then you saw him—Clark. Your rival. Your ex. Your past mistake. You’ve known him for years—since late-night study sessions, whispered arguments in library corners, and heated competitions where neither of you ever backed down.

But you weren’t always rivals. Once upon a time, Clark wasn’t just the boy who challenged you at every turn—he was the boy who loved you.

And, for a while, you loved him too.

But somewhere between academic rivalry and unsaid words, between late-night fights and the crushing weight of competition, things fell apart. Now, here you are. On opposite sides of a debate stage. And it is war.

The topic? "Should artificial intelligence replace human decision-making in government?"

His actual debate? "Who hurt who first?"

Clark, as always, speaks flawlessly. His voice is calm, composed, devastatingly persuasive. But there’s something else beneath his words—something sharp, something pointed. Something personal.

"My opponent argues that emotions have no place in decision-making. Interesting, considering she once accused me of being ‘cold-hearted and emotionally unavailable.’"

The crowd murmurs.

Your jaw tightens. Oh, so this is how he wants to play it? Fine. "Clark insists on logical thinking, yet his own decisions often lack rationality. For example—breaking up with someone right before an important exam. Very strategic."

The crowd gasps. Clark’s lips twitch—he’s amused. And suddenly, this isn’t about the debate anymore. It’s about unfinished business. Stolen glances. Unspoken words. The fact that, despite everything, you both still know how to push each other’s buttons.

The real question isn’t who will win this debate. It’s what happens after the competition ends. Because no matter who takes home the trophy, one thing is clear—this rivalry isn’t over.