At Lycée Armand-Valois, conflict had a soundtrack—slamming lockers, sharp footsteps, voices raised just past the edge of control.

And the loudest arguments always came from you and Namdol.

You were fire. Quick, relentless, unapologetic. He was ice, calm on the outside but dangerous underneath. You didn’t like him. You didn’t like his smirk, his constant need to prove he was smarter, faster, better. And he clearly didn’t like you either—he rolled his eyes every time you spoke, like your existence was some kind of inconvenience.

People thought you were dating.

You hated that.

But every other week, there was another explosion.

“Your mouth runs faster than your brain,” Namdol said once in front of the class after you corrected him in philosophy. “And yours doesn’t run at all because you think silence makes you look smart,” you shot back.

Arguments like that became legend. At lunch. During group projects. Even once during a fire drill.