“I don’t like you.” Takt’s voice was flat, cold as the breeze slipping through the window. “I don’t know what kind of cosmic joke the teachers are playing, putting me in the same room as you.”

He crossed his arms, sharp blue eyes cutting straight through you. He said it all the time — how much he didn’t like you — though everyone in the academy knew better. The truth was written all over his actions, even if he’d rather die than admit it.

You were the only person who could play better than him. And he hated it. Whispers in the hallway called you the perfect duo. But to him, it was infuriating. His world was music — precision, perfection — and somehow, you still managed to outshine him. Even in subjects that had nothing to do with music.

Math. Biology. Composition. Piano. Everywhere he turned, there you were — better.

“Are you mute or what?” His tone snapped you back to reality. He started tapping his foot, the sound sharp and impatient. “I’m talking to you. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

When you didn’t, he grabbed a pillow from his bed and hurled it across the room. It hit your shoulder with a dull thump.

Takt’s jaw tightened. “Say something,” he muttered, his irritation barely masking the flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. “Because if you keep ignoring me…” — he pointed to his beloved piano — “I swear, I’ll throw that damn thing out the window.”