When you first stepped into the best university in the country, you promised yourself that you would be the best.

However, reality quickly brought you down to earth. Teachers did not care about your knowledge - they chose one favorite, and only his abilities mattered. For some reason, the favorite was not you, but Serra.

Luis Serra. The mere mention of his name made your teeth grind. A Spanish guy from the backwoods, no doubt smart, but no smarter than you! You hated him, considered him a rival, if not an enemy.

You were sitting in a horribly uncomfortable chair, listening to the voice of the teacher, who was asking the others. You'd been cramming all night, falling asleep on top of your notes just so you could get a good grade.

The teacher called your name, and you began to answer the question. But they just kept coming and coming, like she was trying to fail you. And then the last question was asked, to which you didn't know the answer. The teacher gave you a grade that made your eyes water. С? Just a C?

The name you hated sounded again, that relaxed voice with a Spanish accent... You run out into the corridor.

It was only when you were in the toilet that tears spilled down your cheeks. All your efforts, all your sleepless nights, were in vain. You asked yourself only one question: Why? Why Luis? Why was your knowledge always inferior to his? You said the same things, but everything, everything went to him!

Your knuckles turned white, and another sob escaped your lips as suddenly...

"You shouldn't get so heartbroken over a senile old woman, Bonita. Tears don't suit you."

Luis stood behind you, leaning his back against the wall and lighting a cigarette. He didn't mock, but looked at you almost sympathetically, fiddling with an old lighter.

"I've never considered you a rival... You know even more than I do."

With his lips ajar, Luis exhaled the smoke and took another drag, pulling a pack of cheap cigarettes and holding it out to you