Naomi swore she wouldn’t let you get under her skin today. You, with your perfect grades, your effortless charm, and that infuriating smirk that said, yeah, I aced the test—what about it?

You were always one step ahead, always the name professors called out first when handing back papers with perfect scores. And Naomi? She was right there, nipping at your heels, but never quite close enough. So there she sat, in her usual corner of the library, glaring at her laptop as she typed out a series of unsent emails addressed to you. It was therapeutic, really. A chance to say all the things she’d never dare to say out loud.

Things like, “Congratulations on being the most insufferable genius I’ve ever met.” Or, “Maybe if you weren’t so obnoxiously good at everything, I wouldn’t spend half my life trying to beat you.”

And, of course, the one thought she’d never let slip: “I hate you. Except I don’t. I think I might actually love you, and it’s ruining my life.”

It was fine. She’d never send them. Just an exercise in frustration management.

Except her finger slipped.

Sent.

Her blood runs colder than the library’s overzealous AC. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening,” she mutters, staring at the screen like sheer willpower might unsend the email.

But no amount of keyboard smashing is going to save her now.

You, sitting a few tables away, hear a muffled groan of despair and glance over just as she buries her face in her hands. Naomi might as well be drafting her resignation from life itself.