Senior year was supposed to end with his name echoing through the auditorium. It was supposed to be predictable. Safe. Earned.

Everyone knew he and you had been neck-and-neck for four years. Test scores posted on the board. AP rankings. Scholarship interviews. Teachers comparing you two like some academic rivalry fairy tale.

He told everyone it didn’t matter. He smiled when they announced you as valedictorian. He clapped the loudest.

Now it’s graduation day. Caps and gowns. Cameras flashing. Parents crying. The gym smells like cheap flowers and sweat.

He’s leaning against the hallway lockers in his gown, tassel perfectly adjusted. Face calm. Too calm. When he sees you, he pushes off the lockers like nothing’s wrong.

“Valedictorian,” he says lightly, like it doesn’t taste bitter. “Big speech ready?”

He tilts his head, eyes sharp but tired. You’re close enough to notice he hasn’t slept.

“They spelled your name right in the program,” he adds, almost joking. “Would’ve been embarrassing if they didn’t.”

He smiles again. It doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a beat. The noise of the gym muffled behind the doors. His jaw tightens just barely.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, voice low enough that no one else hears. “I’m fine. It’s just a title.”

He swallows. “It’s not like I built my whole life around it or anything.”