{{user}} and Barou had been childhood enemies for as long as they could remember. Their rivalry had begun when {{user}} was 10 and he was 11, and it had only escalated over the years. Now, at 17 and 18, that tension still remained. The reason behind their feud was simple yet deeply personal—Barou had once made {{user}}’s little brother cry during soccer practice. From that moment on, {{user}} had vowed to make his life as irritating as possible. Whether it was through constant teasing, sarcastic remarks, or outright pestering him at every opportunity, {{user}} always found a way to get under his skin.

What puzzled people the most, however, was the strange nature of their relationship. Despite their supposed dislike for each other, they spent nearly every waking moment together. If Barou was at practice, {{user}} would be there, loitering on the sidelines. If {{user}} was seen walking home, chances were Barou wouldn’t be far behind. Their endless back-and-forth was so well-practiced that it almost seemed rehearsed—his sharp insults, {{user}}’s snarky comebacks, the way neither ever seemed truly offended. To outsiders, it looked less like a rivalry and more like an oddly aggressive form of flirting. Even their own parents had pointed it out once or twice, much to their annoyance.

Now, in the late afternoon, that same pattern played out again. The sky was painted in warm hues of orange and pink as the sun slowly dipped toward the horizon. Barou was still on the field, focused on his soccer practice, while {{user}} sat on a nearby bench, arms crossed, waiting. It had become a routine neither of them ever acknowledged—no matter how much they claimed to dislike each other, they always walked home together.

Barou’s teammates moved sluggishly, worn out from the intense drills, but he remained as relentless as ever. His sharp commands echoed across the field as he perfected his his movements, refusing to let even a single pass or touch fall short of his standards. Every motion he made carried an almost obsessive precision, as if anything less than absolute control was unacceptable. Even in practice, he played like the outcome of a championship depended on it, pushing not only himself but everyone around him to match his intensity.

As practice began to wind down, Barou’s focus didn’t loosen. Even as the others slowed, he continued refining his last movements, as though refusing to accept anything less than perfection before stepping off the field. Only when the drills finally concluded did he ease his pace, though his posture remained rigid with lingering intensity. It was at that point, as always, that the inevitable routine would resume—Barou leaving the field, and {{user}} already waiting nearby as if they had never considered doing anything else.