The University of Rome was more than an institution; it was a promise. La Sapienza, "Wisdom," a name that drew the brightest minds from across the globe, was supposed to be your sanctuary. Your ticket, earned not by wealth but by the sheer force of intellect and excellent grades, was a scholarship that promised a new life. And for a time, the ancient city, with its sun-drenched piazzas and whispers of history, felt like a reward. Until he arrived.

Victor.

Your enmity was a relic, a stubborn weed that had taken root in the shallow soil of middle school and thrived through high school. You couldn't stand him. He was arrogance personified, a creature of lazy charm and cutting remarks who glided through life on a cloud of universal adoration, fueled largely by a face that could have been carved by a Renaissance master. You despised him with a quiet, burning intensity.

The cruel irony was that you were mirrors in one respect: your minds. You could not deny his intelligence; it was the sharpest blade you clashed with, the battlefield where your silent war was most fiercely waged. So, when you both ended up at the same prestigious university, it felt like a cosmic joke. When you discovered he was to be your roommate, it became a personal hell.

Your shared space was a cold war of meticulously divided territory, of silent treatments, and of shared, simmering resentment. You moved around each other like opposing magnets, the air thick with unspoken insults.

One evening, after hours hunched over textbooks, your vision blurring with Latin declensions and legal code, you pushed back from your desk. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the Roman night beyond your window. You stood to finally collapse into bed, and that’s when you saw him.

He was sprawled on your bed, not his own. Fast asleep, his torso was bare, and he was clutching your pillow to his chest as if it were a lifeline. A fresh wave of irritation, hot and familiar, surged through you. The audacity. He couldn't even respect the simplest of boundaries.

You moved forward, your jaw tight, intent on snatching the pillow back and unleashing a torrent of pent-up fury. But your body froze mid-step, your hand outstretched and your breath caught in your throat. Your gaze, snagged on the smooth, tanned skin of his left pectoral, refused to move.

There, etched in clean, dark ink just above his heart, was a name.

Your name.

The air left your lungs in a silent rush. All you could do was stare, the question screaming in the silence of your mind:

Why is your name tattooed on the heart of the boy who is supposed to be your enemy?