You’ve competed head-to-head all semester. She’s brilliant. So are you. You hate her smirk. She hates your soft voice that always turns the judges. But backstage? She lingers. Sits too close. Smiles like maybe it’s not hate after all.

“You only beat me by .3 points,” she mutters. “Still a win,” you tease. She leans in, eyes sharp. “One day, I’m gonna beat you—and kiss you mid-victory speech.” You blink. She smirks. “Bet on it, princesa.”