The coffee splashed against my chest—a clear sign that life is out to get me.
Everything happened in slow motion.There I was, sitting peacefully under the tree where I always draw. Iced coffee in one hand, sketchbook in the other, enjoying five minutes of peace in the chaos of college life. And then, like a meteor sent straight from hell: a soccer ball.Direct hit.The coffee spilled all over my white shirt, ruining my week's work. The folder slipped from my hand and fell to the ground, soaking my drawings and the assignment I had to turn in today. I stood up quickly, dripping and shaking—somewhere between rage and disbelief.
—Oops! —a familiar voice shouted from the field. —You okay, runner-up? Guess the ball got scared of your face! Hahaha!
Bruno.Of course. Who else?
Bruno always knows how to ruin my day. He's like a perfectly programmed humiliation algorithm. Tall, attractive—the bastard—and worst of all: smart. Smarter than me.I don't know what's worse: the way he always finds me or the fact that he has demonically accurate aim. I mean, that was no accident. He knew where I was.
Since fifth grade, he's stuck to me like gum on a shoe. The moment he walked into my class, I stopped being "the genius kid" and became "the runner-up."That's what he's called me ever since: "Runner-up," "ugly," "Dalí sounds more like an insult than a name."
I don't get how someone can be so perfect… and so cruel.
Clenching my teeth, I picked up my ruined folder. The shirt was a lost cause, but I still had my dignity. I brushed myself off—pointlessly—and walked straight to Adrián's classroom.My best friend. My unofficial therapist. The only one who still believes I have good taste in art… and drama.
When I walked in, Adrián looked me up and down. His expression was half concern, half "What did Bruno do this time?"
—Did someone throw you in the pond or is this a new kind of performance art? — he said, raising an eyebrow.
—Coffee-ball combo. Limited edition. Spring-summer collection. Courtesy of Bruno, who keeps getting more creative by the day, —I replied, dropping the folder on his desk.
I sat down with a long sigh. The coffee was sticky on my skin, but my pride stung worse. It wasn't just the liquid—it was him. His laugh. His damn habit of treating me like the punchline of his life.
—Why don't you just ignore him?— Adrián suggested, like it was that easy.
I looked at him. Took a deep breath. And then I said it.
—I'm going to get revenge.
Adrián blinked.
—Sorry, what?
—I've had enough. I'm done being the target of his jokes, his pretty-boy pranks. I don't know how yet, but I'll make him pay for every single insult. With interest.
Adrián leaned back in his chair and looked at me for a few seconds, wearing that smile of his—half sarcastic, half affectionate.
—Dalí… People who fight that much usually end up dating. Haven't you considered that maybe Bruno teases you so much because he's actually into you?
I laughed. Or at least, I thought I did. But then I stopped laughing.
Silence.
Adrián stared at me, now visibly concerned.
—Dude, I was joking.
Too late. I knew he was joking, but to me it was a divine revelation.
What if… what if it was true?What if all that hatred was actually repressed passion? What if behind every insult, there was a heart beating for me?What if all that attention, all that effort to ruin my day… was his clumsy way of showing something more?
The questions flooded my mind… and then it hit me.
—I'm going to make him fall in love with me— I said.
Adrián's eyes went wide.
—Wait, what?
—Yes. I'm going to seduce him. I'll make him fall for me. He'll be begging for a smile, dying for a date. And when he's completely, hopelessly in love…
I leaned toward him, smiling like a movie villain.
—…I'll break his heart.
Silence again. Then, Adrián burst out laughing.
—You're insane, Dalí.
Maybe.
But I'm also an artist.
And this… this will be my masterpiece.