It's another one of those mornings—endless, dragging, with every second feeling like an hour. The walls of the classroom are cold, the overhead lights too bright. I'm sitting in the back, trying to focus on the lesson, but my mind keeps wandering. Everything about today feels like it's pushing me to the edge.
The bell rings for Italian, and I force myself to walk into the room. I try not to notice Luca, sitting three rows ahead, his posture relaxed, eyes half-closed as if he couldn't care less about the class. I don't want to care either, but my mind always seems to come back to him.
Mr. Conti walks in, starts his usual rambling, and assigns us our seats. I sit down and open my notebook. As the teacher starts talking about some obscure topic from Dante's Divine Comedy, Luca's voice cuts through the murmur of the room, talking to Brando and Samu, but clearly wanting to be in the spotlights again.
"Guess who got the highest score on the last test?" His voice is obnoxiously casual, and I can feel him staring at the back of my head.
I don't need to turn around to know exactly what he's doing. He's provoking me.
Like always.
I refuse to look at him, but the words come out before I can stop them.
"Let me guess, you? Shocked," I reply, my tone tight.
His laugh cuts through the air, the kind of laugh that's just a little too smug. It's irritating, the way he knows exactly what buttons to push, the way he enjoys getting under my skin.
"Well, someone's bitter," he says, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms. "I think you might've even done worse than I did. Looks like my grades are better in more than just soccer, huh?"
I can feel my chest tighten. I know he's baiting me, but it's hard to ignore the way his words sting. It's not that I care about the grades—I know I have my own strengths. But Luca has a way of making everything feel like a competition. A silent war between us that no one else sees.
"Don't act like you're so much better," I snap, not even thinking before the words slip out. "Just because you've got a higher grade doesn't mean you're some kind of genius."
He raises an eyebrow, amusement flashing across his face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought that was how it worked. Good grades = smart. But I guess I'm just lucky, huh?"
I grit my teeth, trying to hold back. It's hard to keep my calm when everything he says feels like an attack. It's as if, with every word, he's poking at a wound I didn't know I had.
But then he pushes it further. "You should've studied harder, Chiara. Maybe next time you'll actually stand a chance against me."
I want to shoot back with something that will hurt him the way his words hurt me. But I know better. If I give in, I'll just feed into whatever game he's playing. I have enough to deal with outside of this petty rivalry.
"Maybe I don't need to be the best in everything," I say, my voice low, but there's a sharp edge to it. "Not all of us are trying to be perfect all the time."
He snickers, clearly pleased with himself. "Perfection isn't a bad thing, you know. But I guess it's not for everyone."
I hate that he's right, even if he doesn't know it. It's not just about the grades or the rivalry. It's about how I try to keep everything in line, keep it together. It's about how I can't afford to fail, not when failure means something much worse at home.
I wish I could just escape the tension between us, but it's always there. Like an invisible thread that ties us together, no matter how hard I pull away.
Mr. Conti's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. "Chiara, Luca, if you're done with your little chat, can we get back to the lesson?"
I look down at my notebook, my face flushing with frustration. Luca, of course, is still smiling, like he's won something.
Like he always does.
The rest of the lesson passes by in a blur. My focus is shot, and I can't help but keep stealing glances at Luca. His arrogance, his smug little smirk—it's infuriating. But it's also so familiar.
The bell rings, signaling the end of class. I quickly gather my things, trying to escape the suffocating atmosphere that always lingers when we're in the same room. But as I stand up, Luca is already at my side, his voice low and casual, as if nothing just happened.
"Hey, don't get too worked up about it. You'll probably beat me in the next one. You always do, right?"
I want to say something sharp, something that will shut him up for good. But I don't. Instead, I just nod curtly and walk out, my heart pounding in my chest.
As I head towards the locker room for soccer practice, the anger simmers inside me. Luca's words—the way he keeps making everything into a competition—it's all just too much. But what hurts the most is that I can't even show it. I can't let anyone see how much it gets to me. Because if I do, they'll use it against me. Like always.
I shove my bag into my locker and change quickly. The other girls are already gathering, stretching, talking amongst themselves, but my mind isn't there. It's still stuck on Luca, his voice, the words that keep echoing in my head.
And yet, I can't help but wonder—why does it bother me so much? Why do I let him have this power over me?
I don't have the answers, but the practice is a welcome distraction. The soccer ball feels solid beneath my feet, and with every pass, every shot, the anger inside me burns brighter. It's not enough. Not nearly enough to burn away the frustration.
But at least here, on the field, I can forget about Luca for a while.
Just for a little while.