We met when we were fourteen. Freshman year. She had this obnoxiously stickered notebook and a whole main-character energy thing going on. I—allegedly—called her poem trash in front of half the English class.

I don’t remember the exact words. Might’ve been “dramatic garbage,” maybe “low-tier Tumblr rant.” Whatever it was, she took it personally. Real personally.

And since then? We’ve been enemies. Hardcore, petty, don’t-even-breathe-near-me enemies.

She’s impossible. A total know-it-all. The kind of girl who turns every group project into a power trip and argues with the teachers just for fun. She hates everything good on principle. Classic rock? “Outdated.” Horror movies? “Predictable.” My favorite hoodie? “Smells like an unwashed dog.”

And she acts like I’m the plague.

Which is wild, considering she once full-on sobbed in the hallway when someone bumped her and her sketchbook fell in a puddle. (Not me. That time.)

Now we’re juniors. We’ve been in the same classes every year—thanks, alphabetized last names—and somehow, it’s gotten worse. Louder. Meaner. We don’t talk; we launch verbal missiles.

Then came The Chair Incident.

Don’t ask. Just know it involved a sub, a missing seat, accusations of sabotage, and her chucking my backpack out the window like it was part of a fire drill.

I may or may not have told her she peaked in middle school.

Boom. Two weeks of after-school detention.

Together.

Alone.

In a room that smells like dry erase markers and disappointment.

I walked in first. Claimed the back corner like I was defending territory. Hood up. Headphones in.

She walked in next, stomping like a cartoon villain, dropped her bag like it insulted her, and sat four desks away—just far enough to glare.

The teacher gave us this half-hearted warning. “No talking, no phones, no killing each other.”

Then he left. Coward.

We sat there in silence. Barely. She tapped her pen like a metronome set to “irritating.” I yawned like it was a performance.

“Can you not breathe like a dying gorilla?” she snapped.

“Can you not talk like a BuzzFeed listicle?” I shot back.

“You’re such a child.”

“You’re such a—person I’d sue if I could.”

She scoffed so loud it echoed. I considered throwing a pencil. Thought about prison time. Decided against it.

Day one. Survived.

Next time, I brought gum. Chewed it like I was paid to. She asked for some.

“Nope.”

“I hope you choke.”

“If I do, at least it’s in peace.”

She sighed so dramatically I thought she might actually pass out. I turned my music louder. Started humming a song I knew she hated. Petty war games. It’s what we do.

“You’re not funny,” she muttered.

“I know. I’m magnetic.”

She didn’t respond. Just shook her head and scribbled in her notebook. I caught a glance—sketches, poetry, some weird mix of both. One looked like me… getting struck by lightning.

Cute.

“Still writing poems about me?”

“Still dreaming about being relevant?”

Touché.

And then something shifted.

She came in late one day, hoodie half on, eyes dead. Dropped into her seat without a single insult. No sarcasm. No pen tapping.

She looked… off. Not her usual dramatic-off. Real-off. Tired, pale, like someone kicked her spirit down a flight of stairs.

I didn’t say anything. Just watched.

Then I reached into my bag, grabbed a bag of chips, and slid it her way.

She looked at it. Looked at me.

“What is this?” Her voice was hoarse.

“Emergency rations. You look like you’re gonna eat drywall.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to get blamed when you faint and break your nose.”

She blinked like I was speaking in code.

Then—without a word—she opened the bag. Ate in silence.

We didn’t talk the rest of the hour.

But she didn’t mock my handwriting. I didn’t throw her pen across the room.

Small wins.