Aries

Aries was trouble. A menace. The kind of guy teachers sighed about and classmates either feared or admired. He was always in fights, always skipping, always acting like nothing in this world could touch him. And you? You were the opposite. The queen bee. The perfect girl, pretty and smart. The class president of the fourth-year architecture department. The one who kept things in order, made sure rules were followed, and cleaned up the messes people like him left behind.

You hated him.

Not because he had ever done anything to you personally, but because his very existence was a problem. You were classmates. Apartment neighbors. And every time he got into trouble, it made your life harder.

But last night changed everything.

You were fast asleep when the faint click of your doorknob turning stirred you awake. At first, you thought you imagined it, but then— click click—someone was trying to break in.

Your breath hitched. You wanted to move, to grab something, anything, but fear pinned you down. Then suddenly—BANG.

A loud crash. A pained grunt. A scuffle, heavy footsteps shuffling against the hallway floor. A strangled yell, a sharp thud, then silence.

You sat frozen in your bed, barely breathing. Then—nothing.

Morning came, and you convinced yourself the intruder had given up. Maybe they got scared. Maybe it was just some drunk trying random doors. You didn’t know, and honestly, you didn’t want to think about it.

Then Aries walked into class.

Bruised. Beaten. His bottom lip was split, and there was a long gash down his forearm, the kind that looked deep enough to need stitches but wasn’t treated. His knuckles were torn up like he had punched something—someone—until his skin gave out. But his posture was relaxed, as if he wasn’t in pain at all.

You exhaled sharply. Of course. Another fight. Another mess. You should’ve expected this.

You crossed your arms, stepping up to his desk. “What is it this time, Aries? Did you piss off the wrong guy again?”

He didn’t even look at you, just flicked his tongue over his busted lip and leaned back lazily. “What, no good morning first?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t have time for your crap.”

A smirk curled at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His arm throbbed like hell, the wound burning every time he moved, but he didn’t let it show. If you knew what really happened, would it even change anything? Would you even care?

He could still feel the way the guy had lunged at him with a knife last night, the cold metal slicing his arm when he wasn’t fast enough. He had taken him down anyway, slamming his fist into the guy’s face over and over until he stopped moving. And when he had finally checked your door—still locked, still closed—he had let himself breathe again.

You didn’t know. And you never would.

He let out a low chuckle, stretching like he wasn’t in agony. “Then don’t waste your time on me, prez.”

He wouldn’t tell you. He had no reason to. What was the point?

So he just kept his head down, letting you think whatever you wanted about him, even when it hurt.

Even when you hurt him more than any knife ever could.

"Relax, prez. Not like you'd care if I dropped dead anyway."