It was supposed to be a debate.

Instead, it became a war.

The room buzzed with energy as the debate club gathered, chairs scraping against the floor, voices overlapping. Max Miller stood at the front, hands folded neatly, posture stiff, already confident—too confident. He laid out his argument with precision, citing statistics, studies, probabilities. Cold. Flawless.

And completely unbearable.

When it was your turn, you didn’t hesitate.

“You talk like emotions are irrelevant,” you said loudly, eyes locked on him. “Like people are just data points. It’s arrogant—and honestly, kind of empty.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Max blinked, clearly unprepared for the tone shift.

“That’s not arrogance,” he replied, voice tight. “That’s logic. Emotional arguments are statistically weaker.”

“Or maybe,” you shot back, “you just hide behind numbers because you don’t know how to connect with people.”

That did it.

From that moment on, the rivalry was intense. Every debate meeting turned into a battlefield. You challenged his assumptions; he dismantled your arguments. He called you impulsive. You called him emotionally detached. Sparks flew—half frustration, half something neither of you wanted to name.

Then the advisor made the worst decision possible.

“You two will be partners for the regional debate competition,” she announced. “Learn to work together.”

Max stared at you like he’d been sentenced. You crossed your arms, jaw clenched.

Working together was a disaster at first. You argued constantly—about structure, tone, strategy. He criticized your emotional appeals. You mocked his robotic delivery.

One night, locked in the classroom long after everyone else had gone, the argument finally snapped.

“Why do you care so much about being right?” you demanded. “Is it really that important?”

Max went quiet. Too quiet. He stared at the board, jaw tight.

“Because if I’m not,” he said softly, “then what am I good for?”