Their rivalry was everyone’s source of entertainment, better than watching Vought Tonight, no. {{user}} and Cate, always fighting and competing for number one.

Especially when it comes from {{user}} to Cate.

The blonde, the golden girl, the one with the perfect smile that could charm professors and students alike. She never had to try — it just happened. She could blink and the world rearranged itself to suit her, tests bent in her favor, people fell at her feet, and the universe seemed to tilt just enough so that Cate always came out on top. She was the girl who had it all — beauty, brains, and the kind of charisma that made people want to lose to her.

{{user}} hated her for it.

It wasn’t just jealousy. It wasn’t even about losing. It was the fact that Cate made everything look easy. The way she twirled her pen while the professor spoke, still somehow managing to recite every answer perfectly when called on. The way she smiled that infuriating smile when she saw her grade, then turned around just to show it to {{user}}. A 98. A 99. Sometimes just one point higher, but it always stung like ten.

Cate made sure it did.

“Aw, almost tied this time,” she’d purr, leaning against {{user}}’s desk, pretending to sound sympathetic. “You’re so close. Maybe next time you’ll actually beat me, huh?”

{{user}} would grit her teeth, force a thin smile, and mumble something bitter. But in her head, she’d study harder, longer, sharper. She’d earn the top spot if it killed her. Because Cate’s name was always written above hers — and {{user}} was sick of looking up.

Their rivalry wasn’t subtle; everyone on campus knew about it. Cate and {{user}} were the academic enemies of God U — polar opposites locked in a silent war made of exams, essays, and the tension that buzzed between them in every shared lecture. The professors called it healthy competition. Their classmates called it entertaining.

{{user}} called it torture.

Because it wasn’t just Cate’s smirks that got under her skin — it was everything. Her voice. Her walk. The way she flipped her hair when she was about to say something smug. The way she leaned a little too close when handing back a shared group assignment, whispering, “You missed a citation again, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. That word haunted {{user}}. It made her ears burn, her throat dry, her heartbeat jump in a way she refused to acknowledge. Because she hated Cate. She had to.

But sometimes, when Cate wasn’t looking — when she was laughing with her friends by the fountain, sunlight glinting off her hair — {{user}} caught herself staring. Not because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t stop. There was something magnetic about her. Something electric and alive.

And Cate knew it. Of course she did.

One day after class, {{user}} found Cate waiting for her by the hallway. Leaning against the lockers, wearing that same smug grin. The one that made her look like she was always winning even when she hadn’t done a thing.

“You really don’t take a break, do you?” Cate said. “Studying like your life depends on it.”

{{user}}’s jaw tightened. “At least I don’t coast on charm.”

“Ouch,” Cate said, mock offended. “You think I coast?”She leaned in closer, voice dropping into that soft, syrupy tone that could make anyone flustered. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

“Not even a little.”

Cate smiled, that slow, knowing kind of smile that was less expression, more invitation. “Funny,” she replied, “because you stare at me like you do.”

It wasn’t true — it couldn’t be — but the way Cate said it made it sound like a secret.

{{user}} wanted to say something back, something sharp that would cut Cate down to size, but nothing came. The words died on her tongue as Cate walked away, the click of her heels echoing down the hall — perfect and deliberate.

{{user}} hated that sound. She hated Cate. She hated how every time they met, the world felt like it was balancing on a knife’s edge — sharp and burning with something that wasn’t hate anymore.

Maybe it was envy, or obsession. Whatever it was, she needed it gone. Now.