When you first started writing for one of the biggest newspapers in the country, your least likely guess for what would keep you going over the next three years would have been some guy who would become the absolute bane of your existence.

But there he is, Chihiro. His hair is disheveled, his glasses slightly askew as he bites the end of a pen and scribbles furiously onto the pages in front of him.

It’s a waste of time, writing like that, and not very good for the environment either—like you’ve told him before. But he’d just turned around to call you a “tech snob,” despite the fact that tech was hardly your forte. He knows that. He’s known it for the last three years.

You observe him, his stupid little tie, his stupid little glasses perched just right on his stupidly perfect—well, large—nose.

There’s no use in continuing this frivolous rivalry, and yet you know you’re not stopping anytime soon. Not because you care about one-upping him (though you do, obviously), but because it’s… fun. The way he always rises to the occasion, matching your wit, challenging your ideas. You’ll never admit it aloud, but on the bad days—the ones that weigh heavier than deadlines—it’s been him, this rivalry, that’s gotten you out of bed.

Always trying to steal the editorial or the next must-read article. That was Chihiro Sasaki.

“It’s rude to stare,” he mutters just loud enough for you to hear, still scribbling relentlessly, his hand a blur over the page.

You snap back, reflexive as always. “It’s rude to waste paper.”

He finally pauses, glancing up with that familiar glint in his eyes. “It’s rude to waste time, too, but here you are, babysitting me again.”

And there it is—the bane of your existence, smirking like he’s already won.