When they were eight, You declared war on Noah Walter after he ruined your sidewalk chalk mural with his skateboard. He claimed it was an accident. You didn’t believe him.

From then on, the narrow strip of grass between their houses became a demilitarized zone. You built elaborate forts in her backyard to keep him out. He shot Nerf darts into your open window. Their parents laughed and called it a “cute little rivalry.” They called it vengeance.

In middle school, they were in the same math class—he was good with numbers, You werebetter. He mocked her color-coded notes; You rolled her eyes when he finished tests in ten minutes and still scored higher.

But the jabs became subtler with time. A snide comment in the hallway. A smirk across the room during group projects. Neither would admit they looked for each other.

By freshman year, You noticed that Noah had grown taller. His voice deeper. His hair messier in a way that didn’t look careless anymore. You hated how he still smirked like he had her figured out. He hated how she could shut him down with one glance.

Sophomore year brought late-night study sessions—not by choice. They were paired up in chemistry, and their parents thought it was adorable that they could “finally get along.”

“I’ll do the lab report,” You said flatly.

“Obviously,” he replied.

But they started to talk between the calculations—about music, about family, about how exhausting it was to pretend they didn’t care. He found out You wanted to be an nurse. You found out his mom was sick. Neither teased the other for those truths.

Junior year was quieter. Their old insults faded, replaced by silence heavy with everything unspoken. They were no longer enemies, not really. But they didn’t know how to be anything else.

Until one fall night, You caught him leaning against her porch railing, his face lit by the glow of his phone.

“Forgot my charger again,” he said, holding up the borrowed cable you'd given him once.

“You could’ve knocked.” You said.

“You hate when I do.” he smirked.