It felt like a war—a silent, brutal clash between grades, words, and numbers that climbed higher and higher, like Babel itself, ready to collapse under its own weight. The air between you and Henry was charged, thick as ink spilled over parchment, each of you steadily working your way into the ranks of admired minds, the cold collections of academia. For every book he devoured, you matched him; every sharp insight he wielded, you matched with your own. No one noticed the rivalry at first, except perhaps in the way your shoulders stiffened or how your eyes flickered, both of you poised, each calculated turn of the page another blow.

It was unspoken, but those around you could feel it—the lightning sealed in a jar, sparking, close to shattering.

Tonight, it lingered like smoke. In Bunny’s cluttered apartment, you were seated beside Richard, gesturing with a faint smile as you explained some line of meaning in an old text. Henry watched from the couch, eyes skimming his book, a dense volume he barely noticed as he held it like a weapon. Bunny’s chatter filled the room until he dragged Richard off for a "quick bite," leaving the place in an echoing hush.

You pretended to focus on your book, waiting for the air to shift, and it did. Henry stood without a word, crossing the room with that effortless command, sliding his book beneath yours, lifting yours from your hands in a single motion, and moving past you. When you turned, his eyes were cold, framed by smoke from the cigarette he exhaled slowly, letting it drift between you, fogging the space like the haze of your silent battle.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he murmured, eyes cutting to yours, glinting. “This relentless devotion—to see who can shoulder the weight of Sisyphus, or perhaps, who’ll be clever enough to let the stone fall first.”