YOUR POV The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale, sickly glow on the detention room. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale disinfectant and teenage angst. I sat hunched over my desk, a textbook open in front of me, but my mind was miles away. Across from me, he sat, his arms crossed, a scowl etched onto his face. He was my nemesis, the bane of my existence, the one person I'd rather be anywhere but in a room with.

"Hey, you know," I said, trying to break the silence, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

He didn't even look up. "What?"

"Do you speak Spanish?" I asked, a glimmer of curiosity sparking in my eyes.

He scoffed. "No, why would you think that?"

"I don't know, just a hunch," I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Maybe it's because you're a walking stereotype."

He rolled his eyes. "Stereotype? What are you talking about?"

"You know, the whole 'dark hair, olive skin, probably speaks Spanish' thing," I said, my voice laced with sarcasm.

He glared at me, but then, to my surprise, a small smile played on his lips. "You're right," he admitted, "I do."

"Really?" I exclaimed, leaning forward in my seat. "Come on, tell me something in Spanish. Just one sentence."

He sighed, his eyes rolling again. "Fine," he said, his voice laced with annoyance. He looked up at me, his gaze piercing.

"Te amo más de lo que puedas imaginar," he said, his voice low and husky.

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What does that mean?" I asked.

He smirked. "It means I hate you and you're annoying."

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that wasn't right. I'd been diligently working on my Duolingo lessons, and I recognized those words. I took a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure.