POV: Ava Carter
If looks could kill, Jace Collins would've dropped dead in front of the vending machine by second period.
Unfortunately for me—and the world—he was still breathing. Still smirking. Still walking around like he hadn't completely detonated whatever uneasy truce we'd built over the past few weeks.
I didn't care what he thought he'd said or meant to say to Coach Barrett. The damage was done. And now I had the delightful experience of being the girl who couldn't even hold up her end of a project. The whispers followed me through the hallways. Every raised eyebrow and not-so-subtle glance made my skin crawl.
So when I saw him in the cafeteria, casually laughing with Sam and Ash, something inside me snapped.
I stormed past his table and slammed my tray down across from Layla, who looked up mid-sip of her smoothie.
"You look like you just fought a war," she said, eyebrows lifting.
"I'm about to start one," I muttered, stabbing my fork into a carrot like it personally offended me.
Layla's gaze flicked behind me. "This about Jace?"
"No," I said flatly. "It's about world peace. Of course it's about Jace."
Just then, he had the nerve to glance over. Our eyes locked across the lunchroom like some cursed teen drama, and for a second, everything else fell away.
Then he looked away.
Like I didn't matter.
Like I wasn't even worth fighting with anymore.
And that—somehow—hurt more than all the yelling earlier.
I sat in the dull buzz of the cafeteria long after lunch was over, the din of conversations merging into a white noise that only served to remind me of the chaos simmering inside. My heart pounded with anger and hurt, each beat echoing the memory of Jace's smirk—the one that made me feel small. I could still taste the bitterness of our fight from earlier, the echoes of our shouted words reverberating in every silent corridor I passed.
Layla's words from earlier still haunted me. "You look like you just fought a war." But no one could see that it wasn't a war fought on a playground or in a heated debate; it was the war that raged within me—between the person I was forced to be and the version of me I longed to reclaim. Every memory of Jace—the way he sneered when he mentioned our old quarrels, the casual dismissals of our shared past—added fuel to my frustration. I wasn't just angry with him. I was angry with myself for letting this unspoken history poison every interaction.
I closed my eyes and recalled every petty betrayal over the years: the seat that wasn't mine anymore, the sabotage of projects, and even how he had once teased me about my grades. A part of me craved retaliation, to have him feel just a sliver of the pain he inflicted. And yet, somewhere beneath the layers of resentment, I wondered if I still cared—if that hidden part of me missed the connection we once had before everything turned sour. But I quickly shoveled that thought aside. There was no room for weakness, not now, not when our final project—and with it, the future—hung in the balance.
A muffled laugh pulled my attention to a distant cluster of students near the windows. I recognized Jace's back among them, casually leaning against the glass as if he didn't have a care in the world. Each muscle in me tensed. Every step I took felt like walking toward him, toward the inevitable explosion of pent-up words that had no outlet. But I couldn't let myself be lured into another confrontation. My eyes darted to the clock on the wall—a silent warning that time was slipping away.
With a bitter sigh, I tucked my notebook under my arm and left the cafeteria, determined to focus on our academic work—even as every step reminded me of the rivalry that had defined most of my life. I needed to prepare, even if it meant burying the hurt deep inside. Every fiber in me screamed to face Jace and settle this, but my mind was already plotting a different kind of battle: one over deadlines, research data, and fragmented teamwork that threatened to collapse under the weight of our unspoken animosity.
The classroom was a claustrophobic arena as soon as we stepped in for our group activity. Mr. Daniels, with his perennial patience, assigned us a task on trends in renewable energy—a topic we both reluctantly admired in its potential but loathed for forcing us to work side by side. I could feel the air crackling with tension as he randomly paired students, and, as if scripted, Jace ended up beside me.
I tried to keep my voice calm, outlining a few initial ideas without meeting his eyes. "Maybe we could focus on solar panel innovations in our region?" I suggested, glancing up briefly to confirm he was listening. His lips curled into a half-smile, but it wasn't the warm smile of a friend; it was the grin of an adversary who knew he'd already won this round of silent one-upmanship.
"Sure," he said coolly, "or we could do something more…challenging. I'm thinking wind turbines might spark more debate." His tone dripped with insinuation, as if implying that my ideas were pedestrian. I bristled. The classroom's hum faded into the background as we exchanged barbed remarks, each sentence laced with snark. I found myself defending not just an idea but every past slight, every forgotten insult.
"Do you even read anything for once, Ava?" Jace challenged. His words echoed in the quiet space between desks, and even the scribbling of pencils stopped for a moment. I clenched my jaw. "I read enough to know that you care more about impressing everyone than actually learning something," I fired back, my voice tight with indignation.
The rest of the class stole sideways glances our way, uncertain whether to laugh, intervene, or simply hope the teacher would step in. Mr. Daniels' stern look was the only thing keeping the verbal volley from escalating further. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he interrupted, "Enough. If you two can't collaborate without turning this into a debate club, perhaps you'd like to work separately."
The suggestion hung in the air like a verdict. I stared at Jace. His eyes were equally defiant, and for a long, excruciating moment, it was as if the classroom was holding its breath waiting for our next move.
"I'd prefer to stick with the assignment," I said through gritted teeth, knowing full well that the underlying message was clear: neither of us cared enough to mend the rift—at least not today.
But every interaction under Mr. Daniels' watchful gaze only built on the tension simmering beneath our words. Each reluctant suggestion from him, each painstaking attempt to guide our focus onto the subject matter, only served to remind me of the deep fissures between us. The classroom confrontation wasn't just about our project. It was an arena where every personal failure and resentment found its way into academic discussion.
As we filed out at the end of class, whispers followed us to the hallway. My phone buzzed with texts from friends urging me to "get over it" and "find some common ground." But all I wanted was to run from the confrontation—yet I couldn't escape Jace's persistent, maddening presence.
The hallways were no refuge. I found a quiet corner near the library, leaning against a locker with the bitter taste of defeat still lingering. My thoughts swirled with questions: Was the project doomed? Had we crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed? Every step of the day had been punctuated by Jace's hovering figure, and now my frustration was manifesting as dread for the upcoming final presentation—a project that had become not only an academic task but a personal battlefield.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Layla, her warm eyes filled with concern as she whispered, "Ava, you can't go on like this. It's not just about the project. It's you and Jace—you're letting this hate consume you."
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my pulse. "Layla, you don't understand. Every time I see him, I remember all those years of rivalry, all those stupid moments we thought defined us. Now it's all spiraling out of control, and I don't know if I can fix it."
Before I could respond further, the distant, familiar sound of Jace's footsteps echoed down the corridor. He paused just a few paces away, his eyes locking with mine. For a moment, I expected yet another argument to start. But instead, another friend—Sam, from his usual spot near the lockers—stepped in, his tone desperate. "Both of you," he said, voice cracking with urgency, "this isn't just about school drama anymore. Our final grade is at stake. You two are supposed to work together on a project that counts for half of your year's score. Can you seriously let personal grudges ruin your futures?"
Sam's words, echoing the concerns of so many around us, cut through the haze of anger. Jace's jaw clenched, and he shot me a look that was all anger, pain, and something softer buried deep within. But before any of us could say another word, Layla interjected, "Maybe this is the only solution." Her voice trembled slightly as she continued, "Maybe you two should work separately. It might be best if you channel your energy into the project instead of tearing each other apart."
A heavy silence fell as the weight of her suggestion sank in. It was an admission of defeat—a tacit acknowledgment that our feud was unsustainable. My mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Part of me rebelled against the idea of splitting up; after all, working together had been our norm for so long, even if it was filled with constant clashes. But another part of me knew that something had to give. The tension was too much, and every interaction was a risk to both our grades and our sanity.
I exchanged a glance with Jace. His eyes were guarded, defiant—but there was a hint of resignation, too. Finally, with a voice edged in finality, I said, "Maybe we should do it alone." The words felt heavy, as if I were signing my own defeat.
Sam's face dropped. "You can't be serious. You two were the best team in class." But neither of us wavered.
Jace took a step forward, his voice low and conflicted. "I'm tired of fighting. Maybe it's better this way." There was a vulnerability in his tone I rarely heard—a silent admission that, perhaps, the hatred was consuming more than just our project.
Before we parted ways, Mr. Daniels approached, overhearing the crumbling alliance. "If you're going to work separately, understand that your individual efforts will be held to a higher standard," he warned. "I expect you both to deliver quality work, regardless of personal differences. I won't be lenient because of your… situation."
His words stung, not just for the academic risk but because they underscored our fractured bond. As I left the corridor with my separate work assignment in hand, I couldn't shake the feeling that this decision was a step toward something irreversible—a point of no return where the damage might not be mended.
That night, I found myself in the quiet of my bedroom, the only sound the slow ticking of the clock as it marked time slipping away from our deadline. The stack of research articles lay scattered across my desk, each page a reminder that while I was fighting a battle with Jace every moment of the day, there was also a responsibility I couldn't ignore.
I opened my notebook again, hoping that the act of writing would somehow smooth out the jagged edges of my thoughts. The project, now solely mine, felt both like an opportunity to finally focus and an oppressive reminder of how far we'd fallen apart. I scribbled down ideas, bullet points, and diagrams—each stroke of my pen an attempt to exorcise the ghosts of our past. But every time my mind drifted, it wandered to Jace. I caught myself recalling his frustrated glare during class, the way his eyes had softened for just a heartbeat when Tyler mentioned our future.
It was late by the time I realized I'd been working past midnight. The digital clock glowed a reminder that sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford, but I knew that anything I did now was chasing away thoughts I desperately needed to face. A fleeting, unwanted admission crept into my mind: maybe I wasn't entirely sure that working alone was the right choice.
Across town in his own cluttered room, I imagined Jace was sitting alone with his textbooks and project drafts. I pictured him hunched over his notes, his usual cocky bravado replaced by a silent wariness. I wondered if, in his isolation, he felt the same gnawing regret I did—like the realization that maybe, just maybe, our constant fighting was masking something deeper. I quickly pushed the thought away and forced myself back to our project. There was so much at stake—grades, graduation, and the future that everyone assumed we'd have if only we could work together.
The quiet of the night offered no answers, only lingering questions. I typed away at my laptop, words forming into a structured presentation on renewable energy. But in the silence of my room, every sentence felt hollow without a partner to share the burden. Every piece of data was a bittersweet reminder of our shared past in which we had once been more than adversaries.
Every now and then, I paused to remember a moment when things were different—a time when our rivalry was playful rather than venomous, when every challenge was met with the spark of competition rather than loathing. But those memories were quickly eclipsed by the present, where the distance between us seemed as vast as the uncharted future we both dreaded.
I leaned back in my chair, exhausted. The clock's ticking was the only sound I had to keep me company—reminding me that time was not on my side. In that moment, I realized that the decision to work alone was more than just a split on a project; it was a reflection of how far apart we had grown, a testament to all the battles fought over trivial and personal matters alike.
As I finally shut down my laptop and prepared to surrender to sleep, a single thought persisted in the quiet darkness: Was the price of our pride truly worth the cost? I didn't have an answer, only a heavy heart and the knowledge that tomorrow would bring a fresh wave of challenges—both academic and personal.
Morning arrived with a reluctant calm, the kind that followed a turbulent night. I trudged into school with the weight of our decision still pressing on me like an anchor. The hallways were too quiet, the usual banter replaced by cautious sidesteps as if everyone sensed that something profound had shifted.
I found Jace in the library, sitting alone at a table strewn with textbooks and scribbled notes. There was no dramatic confrontation—no furious exchange of words—but an unspoken understanding hung in the air between us. It was as though we were both acutely aware that splitting the work wasn't just about managing a deadline—it was about admitting that our connection had been irreparably fractured.
Our teacher's announcement that we had to check in individually for our progress was the final reminder of our new reality. I approached Jace hesitantly. For a moment, our eyes met—briefly softening the hardened expressions we'd both worn for so long—and then we looked away, retreating into our own orbits of solitude.
The project, once a shared journey, now felt like two divergent paths. I realized that every page I wrote, every fact I recorded, came with a pang of loss for what might have been—a partnership that could have been more than just conflict. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but wonder if Jace felt that same loss, or if he had grown so accustomed to this separateness that he no longer cared.
As the day wore on and I immersed myself in my work, a quiet inner voice reminded me that sometimes, fierce battles are fought not only on the surface but in the depths of our hearts. I wasn't sure if the division between us was permanent, but it was real—etched deeply into every decision we made.
I glanced around the room, at distracted faces and scribbling pens, wondering if any of us could truly bridge the gaps we'd built. The anger, the rivalry, the history—they were all etched too deeply into who we'd become. Yet, in that quiet aftermath, there was a faint glimmer of recognition: maybe someday, when the dust had settled, we'd look back and understand that the split wasn't just an end—it was a beginning, a chance to rebuild from the very cracks that now defined our relationship.
For now, though, the silence was all we had, and every tick of the clock in that library was a reminder that time waits for no one—not even for broken hearts and fractured alliances.
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Epilogue to Chapter Seven
As I closed my notebook at the end of the day, I couldn't help but wonder if our decision to work separately was an act of strength or simply surrendering to our demons. The tension between Jace and me was palpable, and despite the academic demands pressing down on us, I knew that the real test lay in confronting the past and the bitterness that still lurked within. The war, it seemed, wasn't over—it had merely transformed into a more silent, insidious kind of battle that only time and honesty could hope to resolve.