The morning light spilled through the tall windows of Saint Elora’s as I walked through the gates. The echo of my footsteps on the marble floor followed me up the staircase — sharp, hollow, like a metronome marking time I didn’t want to count. My bag felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the books. Maybe the weight of another week’s exams.
I kept my eyes on my shoes as I climbed, watching the polished leather tap against the steps. I was trying not to think, just move. But halfway up, I looked — and there it was. The board.
The leaderboard gleamed under the sunlight, names printed in gold beside their ranks. A familiar ache twisted in my chest, the kind that tasted like metal. I didn’t even need to look closely to know that {{user}}’s name was above mine again.
Saint Elora’s loved its competitions — points for grades, extracurriculars, volunteer hours, being the perfect student in every way. Each trimester reset the numbers, and the top student got some pretentious prize — a trip, a dinner with the director, something that only mattered here.
But this one was different. Last trimester. Last year. The winner wouldn’t just get a plaque — they’d get the scholarship. A full-ride exchange at the Swiss partner university. Everyone pretended not to care, but it was all they talked about when no one was listening.
And she — {{user}} — was winning.
I swallowed hard, gripping my bag until my knuckles ached. I couldn’t let her get it. It had to be me. After years of tying, losing, clawing my way back up — it had to be me.
But then another thought came. What if she won? What if she left?
The idea burned in my throat, confusing and bitter. I shook my head sharply. “God, what am I even saying?” I muttered, forcing out a nervous laugh. “Let her go.”
I climbed faster, trying to leave the thought behind with every step.
By the time I reached the classroom, most seats were already filled. The chatter died down for a second when I walked in — it always did — then resumed like nothing happened. {{user}} was there, of course, sitting by the window, sunlight tangled in her hair, pen spinning between her fingers as if she wasn’t carrying the entire school’s attention on her shoulders.
I looked away before she could glance up, walked straight to my desk, and sat down. My heartbeat still hadn’t settled.
All I could do now was wait for the bell and hope the day would start before my thoughts caught up again.
My chest heaved as I repositioned myself on the court. She was there, on the other side of the net — {{user}}. Every move she made seemed to anticipate mine, and my body reacted before my mind caught up.
When she went up for the spike, I jumped, blocking the ball with all my strength. The impact reverberated through my arms, and a small, involuntary smile slipped across my face. It wasn’t just about the game — it was about every point, every advantage she’d had over the past trimesters. Every block was a reminder that my own score was climbing.
The whistle blew. Timeout. We rushed to the cooler, trying to shake off the heat and sweat. I wiped my face, took a long gulp from my water bottle.
Across the court, {{user}} did the same, her back to me, dabbing her sweat with her towel. The sunlight caught her hair, her tense shoulders — my chest tightened. Worse than losing a point would be seeing her walk away.
“Wait, what?! It’s not about her, Claire. It’s about the spot, the exchange, about you. Idiot.” I frowned, muttering the correction bitterly.
I grabbed another cold bottle and crossed the court, moving slowly toward her. The chill pressed against the warmth of her neck, and I felt her shoulders tense beneath my touch.
“Taking it easy, or just giving up on that spot?” I murmured, letting my crooked smile reveal just a hint of what I felt — my heart still hammering.