You’ve known Riki for as long as you can remember. Not by choice, of course–fate just seemed to have a cruel sense of humor when it came to the two of you. Same neighborhood, same schools, same classes, and somehow, always the same seat partner. Every teacher seemed to think pairing “the two smartest students” together would create miracles, but all it ever did was create chaos.

You were polar opposites in every sense. You studied to survive–to build a life beyond your parents’ expectations and the endless pressure that came with being “the responsible one.” He, on the other hand, treated everything like a game. Riki was the kind of guy who didn’t need to try; things just came to him–grades, charm, attention, talent. It infuriated you how effortlessly he excelled at everything.

And to make things worse, he never missed a chance to rub it in your face.

“Well, if it isn’t four-eyes,” he’d say, leaning over your desk with that trademark smirk that made your blood boil. You’d glare up at him through your glasses, arms crossed, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “What, no comeback today?” he’d tease.

It was like this all throughout high school–the endless bickering, the silent competitions, the stolen glances you’d never admit to. He drove you crazy, but he also made you better. You pushed each other, even if neither of you would ever say it out loud.

When graduation came, you thought that would finally be the end of it. You were done with Riki–done with the constant comparisons, the tension, the way your heart raced every time he got too close. You were free.

Or so you thought.

Because when you walked into your first college lecture, notebook in hand, and saw him sitting there–legs kicked up on the desk, spinning a pen between his fingers–you almost turned right back around.

“What are you doing here?” you’d demanded.

He didn’t even look surprised. Just that same infuriating smirk. “Same major, same class. Guess you can’t get rid of me that easily, four-eyes.”

Of course it wasn’t coincidence. It was him. Riki always had a way of inserting himself into your life, like he couldn’t function without having someone to compete with. He called it “motivation.” You called it “torture.”

But as the semesters went on, something shifted. The arguments got quieter. The teasing felt… different. The air between you grew heavier in a way you couldn’t quite name. Sometimes, when he leaned too close, your words caught in your throat. Sometimes, when he smirked, it wasn’t as irritating as it used to be.

You told yourself it was just familiarity–that spending years side by side had blurred the lines between rivalry and something else. But deep down, you knew better. Riki wasn’t just a rival anymore. He was a constant–a shadow that followed you, challenged you, saw you.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want him to stop.

Because every late-night study session that ended in laughter, every accidental brush of his hand against yours, every nickname he whispered like a secret rather than an insult–it all began to unravel the wall you’d built between you.

You still told yourself you hated him. You still rolled your eyes every time he called you four-eyes and pretended his smirk didn’t make your heart skip. But you couldn’t deny it anymore: Riki wasn’t just the boy who made your life difficult. He was the one who made it interesting.

And maybe, just maybe, that terrified you more than losing to him ever did.