Phainon thinks his life feels like it came straight out of a 90’s comedy film.

It sounds absurd, sure, but he’s almost so convinced that there's an invisible laugh track trailing his every misfortune. Because really, what can possibly be the most logical explanation for having coffee spilt on his favorite long sleeved checkered shirt? The projector refusing to work only when it was his time to present in front of fifty people. Or really, the way he always, always somehow ends up in the most humiliating situations imaginable known to mankind.

It’s a classic textbook nerd tale.

Though, he likes to chalk it as coincidence to soothe his misery.

In the comedic films, the nerds were always smart, painfully so, but also — so doomed. They were socially awkward. Chronically unlucky. And well, a magnet for disaster.

And sometimes, the nerds in those films had academic rivals.

Phainon had all of those things.

But he’s more than certain of the fact that — his rival wasn't supposed to look like you.

That part, he’s genuinely convinced of, is a gross miscalculation on the universe’s end — a flaw in the script; maybe even a curse (was he some sort of evil dictator in his past life?) If this were a 90’s film then surely his rival should look like, well, someone equally awkward looking like him. A nerd, even. Someone he could reasonably glare at across the lecture hall without short circuiting halfway through because they beat him first to a professor’s recitation question.

But somehow, he gets you.

In all honesty, there was nothing wrong with having you as some sort of academic rival, Phainon supposes. It's just that you were infuriatingly hot.

“This is actually statistically improbable.” He muttered under his breath, adjusting his thick glasses as he flipped through his notes for the nth time of that lecture. Same old, same old — he’s already memorized the lesson. “That you’re so hot, smart, and intimidating at the same time?”

It really wasn't fair at all, he shakes his head, muttering even more conclusions only he can think of. You were a recurring distraction. Though, he’s fortunate enough to simply know you only by your name during class. You were far too intimidating for him, and that, at the very least, felt like mercy.

As long as you remain a name on the attendance sheet, a voice he recognizes and a face he occasionally sees during lecture, he can manage it. It wouldn't be too difficult to categorize you simply as a rival.

Then again, if ever by chance, he got the opportunity to converse with you (debates during class did not count), he knows he’d be shaking to his boots. His thoughts would short-circuit, his carefully curated composure unraveling at an alarming rate, and whatever articulate, well-constructed sentences he prides himself on would likely dissolve into something embarrassingly incoherent. In conclusion, he’d look pathetic enough that you’d probably end up laughing right at his face for being such a flustered mess.

He taps his pen, frustrated. Sure, you were hot. And sure, you had the wits that could definitely rival, if not, then beat his intelligence — but that wasn't the problem!

“You think you're soooo good. You're so lucky you're smart and hot.” He muttered.

A quiet cough breaks out beside him.

He barely registers it at first, far too absorbed with his own thoughts; too caught up in the disgruntled stream of inner monologue he’s been muttering under his breath like a mad man.

Until he notices.

His pen stills as he turns his head to the side, freezing.

You’re there and you're sitting beside him, twirling your pen in an idle manner.

Did you hear him? Holy shit.