You hated him. Truly, deeply, hated him.

It wasn’t fair. You had poured hours into studying, sacrificed sleep, pushed yourself to the brink of exhaustion. And for what? To watch Lloyd stroll in, late as usual, toss his messy black hair out of his eyes, and still manage to come out first.

Lloyd Davenport was lazy. Lazy, but talented beyond reason. He barely studied, barely tried, yet he always managed to outshine you. You were jealous. Hated him.

You stared at the bold "2nd" stamped across your exam paper. It didn’t matter that your score was near-perfect. It didn’t matter that most people would kill for it. Because you weren’t first. And he was. Again.

He sat two rows over, tapping his pen idly against the desk. His head was tilted, posture relaxed. But you could feel his eyes on you, sneaking glances, as if checking to see your reaction to his latest win.

Lloyd didn’t realize how much you hated him for it. He didn’t know that his attempts to get your attention only made you hate him. And you didn’t know that Lloyd was in love with you.