Dearest Enemy,

Sometimes I wish you had a girlfriend, so I wouldn’t have to adjust my plans around what our friends are scheming for the weekend. If I’ve ever been rude to you, which is often, it’s because you need to recognize when you’re wrong about topics I’ve become an expert in.

The academy had never been disappointed me until now. I roll my eyes at how you trivialize history to suit your people’s narrative. I gag at how our friends don’t bat an eye at your claims. They wouldn’t dare to challenge you the way I do—with irrefutable evidence and the sharp skills of a debate champion.

You say I’m too cultured for this city, but I just enjoy watching the History Channel on weekends. I delve into the strangest murder mysteries and romances, yet I can’t seem to decipher the mysteries hidden in your words.

If they weren’t here, I’d kiss you right on the street. I’d probably say yes to going home with you if I wasn’t labeled as ‘bad news.’ We both know that’s not true, but it’s something we share too.

So if they’re going to call us names, why should we fight? I’ll happily skip down the river petals to meet you under the cyan lights. No, you won’t get a one-night stand, but I can be great company to chat about uncertainties, munch on late-night snacks, and conduct impromptu therapy sessions that neither of us is qualified for.

Tell me, what was her name? What was she like? Did your heart shatter into a million pieces when she walked out of your life? I know that feeling—I have cried a thousand nights for someone I had to let go.

Do you feel like skipping to the part where we kiss on your parents’ couch? No, we can’t, because we need therapy, and thankfully, one of us can afford it. It’s the generational trauma we must learn to break; otherwise, we’ll just keep going through with this performance.

But it’s all in my head. I like to pretend you actually like me, not because of the roses that adorned me that night, or because I’m pretty when I’m drunk. I’d love to hear you admit that you actually enjoy the way I talk. Say, ‘I love how you know too much, but I hate how you know too much.’ It’s hard to impress a smart girl who already knows the facts.

Now you act so bored and barely reach to grasp my hand. I’m torn between being nice, mad, or crazy—I’m all three when I don’t feed off your energy. It’s exhausting, craving the validation that you seem so reluctant to give.

Out of spite, I’ve kissed France, the Netherlands, and Italy, when all I ever wanted was for you to explore my territory. I’d let you pierce my heart with an arrow if it meant savoring your fountain of youth. I’m done fighting; I’m laying down all my armor, yearning to sign a treaty that will lead your arms back to me.

They say you’re a romantic, but I fear the flowers aren’t meant for me. They say you want marriage, but God, isn’t a ring at this age scary? I can’t help but wonder if our dreams align, or if we’re just pretending to be on the same page.

I’d rather be your cheerleader for now, watching your every move on the field. I’ll cheer for you even when you lose, because I’m there for you when no one else moves. The rest of the school can think what they want, but deep down, we both know that if we gave each other a chance, we’d fall in love. There’s magic in the bond we share, unspoken yet undeniable truth.