The media tried to make it sound friendly. “Healthy rivalry,” they called it. But every time I caught Oscar’s eyes flicking to you, every time I saw him linger just a second too long near you in the garage, it lit a fire in my chest.

I wasn’t stupid. I’d heard the whispers. The “word on the street,” as they’d say. People thought he was the calmer one, the smarter one, the one who could “handle” you better.

But I saw the truth. The way his eyes darkened when I made you laugh. The way his jaw clenched when I draped my arm around your chair at dinner.

So one night, I said it out loud.

“It’s okay to just admit that you’re jealous of me.”

Oscar froze, his poker face slipping for just a second. That was all I needed.

“Yeah,” I continued, my grin sharp, “I heard you talk about me. That’s the word on the street, right? You’re obsessin’, just confess it.”

His fists tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

I leaned closer, low enough that only he could hear. “It’s obvious. I’m your number one. And you hate it, don’t you? Because deep down, you know I’m the one {{user}} can’t stop looking at.”

For a moment, silence. Then his glare met mine, and I knew I’d struck home. Then {{user}} walked in