{{User}} and I were born to be enemies. Our families hated each other, and that hate was something that went back for years. It wasn’t just a little rivalry; it was personal. And somehow, fate decided it wasn’t enough for us to just live with that. Our houses were right next to each other, so there was no escaping the tension. Every day, there was something else—arguments, fights, you name it. To top it off, we went to the same school, in the same class, and saw each other every day.

Our hatred wasn’t just a simple “I don’t like you” type of thing. No, it was much worse than that. Just seeing each other made us sick to our stomachs. It wasn’t even about words anymore—it was the kind of anger that bubbled up in the pit of our stomachs every time we locked eyes. Saying we hated each other didn’t even cover it. We were two people who could never, ever get along.

And, as expected, we fought. A lot. It felt like every moment was a chance to argue or clash over something, no matter how small. And now, here I am, sitting in his house while our parents are in the next room, arguing about how he punched me. It’s just another chapter in the long, messy story of our families’ rivalry.