A sharp ache twisted in my chest again.

We met back in high school. Funny how it all started—we were in the same class. She was the class president; I was her vice.

At first, she always ranked number one. Every test, every subject—she had the top score.

Until one day... On a midterm, my total score missed hers by just one point.

That day, she came to me, smirking like she'd won a war. “Even if it's just one point,” she said, “I’ll always be better than you. Just like I’m president… and you’re only the vice.”

I never understood why she said that. Maybe it was her way of pushing me. Maybe it was just ego. But whatever it was, it lit something in me.

From that day forward, I threw myself into studying with everything I had. I stayed up later, studied harder and sent her late-night messages just to ask: [You still awake?]

It wasn’t concern. It was reconnaissance. I wanted to know how hard she was working—so I could work just a little harder. Just one more minute. Just one more point. Just enough to pass her. To prove myself.

And Freya… she did the same.

Even though she was a girl, she was ruthless when it came to competition. She'd message me too: [You asleep yet?]

Freya wanted the same edge. Wanted to beat me just as badly as I wanted to beat her.

We pushed each other past our limits. Some nights we stayed up until 2 or 3 in the morning—both of us too stubborn to be the first to stop.

But the body has its limits. Lack of sleep hit us like a freight train during the day. Eventually, neither of us could keep it up.

Freya cracked first.

One day, she cornered me in the hallway, her face pale with exhaustion. “We need rules,” she said. “Starting now—lights out at 10:30. No exceptions. No more sneaking in extra study time. Promise me.”

I looked at her with doubt. “I can do that,” I said. “But can I trust you not to cheat?”

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Please. I don’t need to cheat to beat you. I’ll win fair and square.”

So every night, right at 10:30, we’d both send the same message:

[Stopping now. Goodnight.]

But I lied. I kept going.

Even if it was just thirty more minutes, just one extra chapter, I believed it mattered. I believed every minute counted—that every second of effort would eventually tip the scale in my favor.

Then came another round of test results.

No surprise this time, I beat her. By two points. Freya stared at me like the numbers were lying. Like maybe I’d cheated. Like she couldn’t quite believe it.

Predictably, she was pissed. After class, she texted me to meet her at the cafe just outside school.

The moment she walked in, she didn’t even sit down. She stormed over to the table, slammed her test paper right in front of me.

She asked if I had secretly studied outside our agreement time.

When she confronted me, I felt a pang of guilt and admitted that I had been studying an extra half hour each night. I expected her to explode in anger. Instead, she turned and left without a word.

The next mock exam came and once again, she couldn't surpass me. That day, she broke down in tears right there in the classroom. Our classmates and even the teacher tried to console her.

Later that evening, she asked me to meet her at the small park near our school. Under the dim streetlights, she looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and asked, "Have you been extending your study time again?"

I nodded, "Yes, I still study an extra half hour each night."

She burst into tears.

Only then did I realize the depth of her frustration. She had been pushing herself, studying until 1 a.m. every night, trying to outdo me. Despite her efforts, I still managed to stay ahead.

We were both young and naive. I stood there, watching her cry, feeling helpless and unsure of how to comfort her.

In the next exam, I intentionally made two mistakes, allowing her to surpass me. The errors were obvious and the teacher reprimanded me in front of the class, even calling me into the office for a stern lecture.

While I was in the office, Freya saw my test paper and realized I had let her win on purpose. She asked to meet over the weekend.

But when the time came, she didn't show up. Calls went unanswered. Worried, I searched for her and eventually found her cornered by two thugs in a narrow alley.

Without hesitation, I rushed in to help her, taking a beating that left me hospitalized.

During my recovery, she visited me every day after school, bringing class notes. We studied together, sharing those quiet moments.

Eventually, we both got accepted into the same university. It was then that she confessed her feelings to me.

After we started dating, I discovered that she came from a wealthy family, a true rich heiress.

The day we graduated from university, we decided to get married. However, her family was firmly against it.

Especially her younger sister—she looked down on me from the very beginning. She made snide, passive-aggressive comments and sometimes openly mocked me, calling me a "gold-digger," saying I was just a nobody chasing after her sister’s money.

Only Freya and I knew the truth.

What we had started as a real friendship—pure and simple. It wasn’t until much later that it turned into love. By the time I found out she came from a wealthy family, my feelings for her had already been genuine.

Still, that time in my life was tough.

I felt lost, like I didn’t belong. To show that I mattered, Freya went against her family’s wishes. She secretly took her household registration papers and came with me to the registry office. We signed the marriage certificate on our own.

When her parents found out, they were furious. Their disapproval didn’t ease until Freya showed them her pregnancy test results. Only then did they begrudgingly accept our marriage.

But acceptance didn’t mean respect.

Her family continued to treat me with contempt. No matter how warm or polite I tried to be, all I got in return was sarcasm and cold shoulders. Their mockery stripped me of any dignity I had left.

In the early years, Freya would often comfort me. She’d tell me to be patient, that they’d come around. But as time passed—especially after our child was born—things began to change.

She grew distant, colder. It felt like the more I tried to hold on, the faster she pulled away. Worse, she started developing some vague, uncomfortable closeness with her assistant—one that she never clearly defined but never denied, either.

I tried to bring us back together. I became more attentive, more loving, trying to remind her of what we once had.

But instead of bringing us closer, it just pushed her further away.

She started criticizing everything about me—my job, my habits, my worth. She’d even compare me to her assistant, pointing out everything he did better.

And then… my mother passed away in the hospital.

In that moment, I finally understood that whatever innocent love Freya and I once shared had long since faded. The bond we once had was gone.

Our relationship had turned toxic. There was no point in pretending anymore.

That night, like most nights, I stayed up past 11 p.m. I had gotten used to it.

I didn’t go back to our bedroom. I slept in a separate room now. Because every time I walked into that bedroom, every time I saw that bed, all I could think about… was the day I came home and found her there—with him.

The next morning, almost as if on cue, we opened our doors at the exact same time.

She looked at me, startled. "Why didn’t you come back to the bedroom last night?"

I met her eyes calmly. "Do you really think there’s a point anymore?"

Freya’s face darkened. "You’re so petty sometimes. You never try to understand me."

I nodded slowly. "You’re right. I didn’t understand you... When my mother was in the hospital, asking to see you and her grandson one last time."

"When your assistant was lying in our bed. I’ve been trying—really trying—to figure out how to forgive you. But I just can’t."

I walked away.

When I reached the front door, I paused. "Should I find a lawyer to draft the divorce papers, or do you want to handle that?"

Freya didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at me like a stranger. "Whatever. Do what you want."

That weekend, I went to a law office and had a divorce agreement drafted.

When it was done, I headed back to what was still technically our home. I held my key to the door, but hesitated. Maybe… maybe I didn’t want to walk back into that place ever again.

I pulled the key back out.

Instead, I went to my home—my real one. The one I grew up in. Ever since Mom passed, I was the only one left here.

I opened an old drawer and found a photo from a few years ago. It was one of the three of us—me, my mom and my son. In the picture, Mom was smiling so gently, joy radiating from her face. But my son… he looked grumpy, clearly not happy to be taking that photo.

When he was born, my mother was so hapy. That child was her everything.

However, Freya’s family—they were overbearing from day one. Not long after our son was born, they told my mom straight to her face: That my son won’t have a future if he grows up in your house. He’s going to take their family name—Weiss.