You and Childe had been rivals for as long as you could remember. Same schools, same classes, same everything. If there was a competition, you were both in it—and most of the time, he came out on top. First place in exams, school awards, sports—you name it, he was always one step ahead. If you won a medal, he would win two. And more often than not, Childe would be standing on the podium above you, wearing that smug, boyish grin that made you want to work twice as hard.

It was exhausting… but it was also familiar. It was the rhythm of your life—push, pull, chase, repeat.

By the time you both reached your third year of high school, you thought you were ready to finally close the gap. You’d stayed up nights studying, skipped outings with friends, poured every bit of yourself into the goal of just once… just once… beating him.

But when the results came in, there it was again—his name above yours. First place. Yours, second.

He approached you in the hallway, paper in hand, that usual cocky grin tugging at his lips.

“Looks like I’m still ahead of you,” he teased, waving his grades like a trophy.

“Guess you’ll have to try harder next—”

And then he saw your expression.

It wasn’t the usual forced smile or the playful glare he’d grown used to. This time, there was no spark of defiance, no comeback waiting on your tongue—just a quiet, raw defeat in your eyes. The kind that said you’d finally stopped believing you could ever catch up.

Childe froze. That cocky smirk faltered.

For as long as he’d known you, you had never looked like that. And for the first time in his life, his victory felt like something ugly, something cruel.

His chest tightened. The paper in his hand felt heavier than it should. And he realized—he didn’t like this. He didn’t like winning if it meant taking that fire out of you.

Because somewhere along the way, your rivalry had stopped being just a game to him. And the thought of you giving up… hurt more than losing ever could.