You had known Francis Abernathy since you were children, not by choice but necessity. Your lives, woven by the same threads of wealth and tradition, left little room for discretion. Your family’s name, long synonymous with status and decorum, required you to mingle with others of equal pedigree, leaving no one, especially not Francis, outside your orbit.

The first time you met, at one of your parents’ endless social functions, Francis was already the picture of aristocratic eccentricity—tall, pale, freckled, with that striking shock of red hair. Your parents approved of him, naturally. It seemed inevitable that the two of you would become fast friends. Yet you didn’t. There was no outright hostility between you, just a quiet, persistent rivalry.

You, ever dutiful to your family’s expectations, and Francis, rebellious in his own languid way, found yourselves constantly at odds. He teased, critiqued, and casually dismissed your obedience to the old rules that bound you. And you—God, how you hated him for it.

Years later, you'd grown. You thought you'd left all that behind, but, by some cruel twist of fate, you found yourself attending the same college as Francis.

Worse yet, you shared classes. You tried to avoid him, switching courses, rearranging your schedule, but it was useless. No matter how far you pulled away, you were always drawn back, as if bound by some invisible thread.

You made peace with it, but reluctantly. Night study sessions in his dimly lit apartment became routine. He rarely studied, preferring to lounge on the couch and smoke, offering the occasional lazy question while you worked. Still, there was something strangely magnetic about him, something that softened your distaste into a begrudging affection. You weren’t sure what it was—just 'like,' surely, nothing more.

One night, after another late session, you sat beside him. Without a word, you plucked the cigarette from his hand, placed it between your lips. He watched you in silence, the quiet between you feeling comfortable.