Riki used to be invisible—no, worse than invisible. He used to be the joke. The guy everyone whispered about in the cafeteria, the one they laughed at for wearing glasses too thick and clothes that never seemed to fit quite right. He’d keep his head down, books clutched to his chest, hoping the day would pass without anyone noticing him. But someone always did.

You remember him vaguely from your earlier years on campus—the quiet, awkward guy who always sat in the front row, answering every question with a voice barely above a whisper. You were part of a different crowd. The kind of student people noticed the moment you walked into a room. Confident, charismatic, admired. You never paid him much attention.

But that was before everything changed.

When Riki walked into campus for his last year, no one recognized him. Gone were the round glasses, the hunched shoulders, the timid voice. His hair was styled now, his posture straight, his eyes sharper—confident. The whispers came again, but this time they weren’t cruel. They were curious.

“Who’s that?” someone asked.

“No way—that’s Riki,” another voice answered.

And just like that, he went from the boy people mocked to the man everyone wanted.

You didn’t expect to notice him. But when he passed you in the hallway that first day—headphones in, bag slung casually over his shoulder, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips—you froze. For the first time, it wasn’t you being stared at. It was you staring.

He glanced at you once, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Something wrong?” he asked, calm, a little amused.

You blinked. “No. Just surprised.”

“By what?”

“By how much you’ve changed.”

He smirked, walking past you. “Guess people do that sometimes.”

You weren’t used to people walking away from you first.

From that day on, it became a game. You’d catch glimpses of him in the library, at the café, at the quad. Always surrounded by people now—friends, classmates, admirers. You’d walk by, expecting his attention, but he’d just give you that infuriating half-smile and turn away.

He wasn’t chasing you. He wasn’t chasing anyone. And that made you want him more.

One afternoon, you finally cornered him in the library. “You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, leaning against the shelf, arms crossed.

Riki didn’t even look up from his book. “Avoiding you? No. Just busy.”

You frowned. “Busy ignoring me, maybe.”

That made him chuckle quietly. “You’re not used to people saying no to you, are you?”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Not really. But I like a challenge.”

He closed his book then, looking at you properly. His gaze was steady, the kind that makes your heart skip without warning. “Then you might just lose this one.”

“Is that a promise?” you teased.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low. “It’s a warning.”

You left that day with your pulse racing, your confidence shaken in the best way possible. Riki wasn’t like the others. He didn’t fall at your feet. He didn’t even seem to care whether you noticed him. And that drove you insane.

But the more you tried to get his attention—the casual conversations, the subtle flirting—the more you realized something, Riki wasn’t playing to win. He was playing to make you fall.

And he was winning.