Isabelle Chen's morning began with silence.
Not the kind that came from a lack of sound, but the intentional kind—the kind she cultivated. Her alarm rang precisely at 6:30 AM. She turned it off with one motion, already sitting upright before the second chime hit. No groaning. No hesitation. The world didn't pause for people who lingered.
While the rest of her house still slept, she moved through her routine like a well-rehearsed ballet. Bathroom, teeth, ponytail, breakfast. One slice of buttered toast, one hard-boiled egg, one cup of black tea. No distractions, no screens. Just the ticking of the kitchen clock and the notes of a piano concerto playing softly from her phone speaker.
By 7:10, she was reviewing her planner at the dining table. Her handwriting was small, neat, almost mechanical. Color-coded tabs lined the margins: green for deadlines, red for competitions, blue for student council. Her goals for the year were already outlined in her mind—valedictorian, National Science Award finalist, and full scholarship to the University of Chicago. No surprises. No room for them.
And definitely no room for Noah Harding.
She closed her planner with a soft snap, slipping it into her backpack like a soldier holstering a weapon.
By 7:30, she was out the door.
The drive to school passed in a blur of quiet thoughts and an audiobook on political philosophy. She liked having something dense in the background—it gave her mind something to push against. Unlike the fluttery noise that filled most mornings at Crestwood High.
The school came into view, its brick facade glowing faintly under the late-summer sun. She pulled into her usual spot—third row from the front, always under the tree for optimal shade—and stepped out, smoothing the hem of her skirt. Her blazer was crisp. Her bag hung precisely on her left shoulder. Not a strand of hair out of place.
She didn't walk through the school's doors so much as cut through them, a current of cool precision slicing through the chaos of students laughing, shoving, and buzzing about summer flings and back-to-school drama.
"Chen!"
A girl from the Model UN team waved from across the hall.
Isabelle nodded once. Cordial. Distant. Measured.
The first bell rang just as she turned the corner near the senior common room. That's when she saw him.
Noah Harding.
She recognized him instantly, even from the back. There was something unbearably theatrical about the way he carried himself—like the hallway was a red carpet and he was the main attraction. His blond hair was just messy enough to look natural, though she was sure it wasn't. His backpack hung perfectly off one shoulder like a commercial ad for academic cool. And of course, he was smiling. He was always smiling, as if life were some long-running joke he was in on and the rest of the school had yet to catch up.
She should've kept walking. But something about him—something annoyingly magnetic—always pulled her in. Maybe it was the smug confidence. Maybe it was the fact that he could back it up.
Or maybe it was that she couldn't stop thinking about how he was always one step behind her… and sometimes, one step ahead.
"Harding," she called out, her voice crisp, sharp. She didn't raise it—she didn't need to. "Looking forward to seeing your innovative ideas for the Fall Festival. Unless you're still campaigning for last year's 'pie the teacher' repeat."
He stopped, of course. Turned with that same smile he wore like a tailored suit. She hated that she could already predict his expression before he even looked at her.
He stopped, of course. Turned with that same smile he wore like a tailored suit. She hated that she could already predict his expression before he even looked at her.
"Chen," he said, like her name was a challenge he enjoyed losing to. "Always a pleasure to disappoint."
She arched an eyebrow. "I wouldn't call predictably adequate a disappointment. Just... expected."
Their banter had developed its own rhythm over the years, like a tennis match between evenly matched players. Serve. Return. Jab. Counter. It wasn't venomous at least not anymore. It was just part of the strange orbit they occupied around each other.
She watched the way he leaned against the doorframe, like he had nothing to prove. But she knew better. Knew how much he cared about winning. Knew how deeply that charming persona was curated. It fascinated her the effort behind his effortlessness.
"And what's your revolutionary idea this year, Chen?" he asked. "Replace the bake sale with a lecture on gravitational lensing?"
She almost smiled. Almost. "If it raises money and promotes actual thought, I fail to see the downside."
"You would," he muttered, amused.
She could feel the edges of her composure tugging upward, like a laugh was trying to escape. She stifled it. Letting him know he'd gotten to her would be a tactical mistake. Still, there was a familiar thrill in these exchanges like fencing with words, each of them testing the limits.
The second bell rang, scattering the students around them like startled birds.
She adjusted her bag, preparing to leave him behind, but not before one last dig.
"Just don't forget the goal is fundraising, not inflating your ego."
"And don't forget people actually want to enjoy the festival," he shot back, grinning.
She walked away without answering, her gaze fixed straight ahead—but she heard the grin in his voice. And it stayed with her.
Long after she'd reached her homeroom seat and unpacked her planner. Long after she'd begun jotting notes for her Honors Chem presentation. Long after she should have dismissed the interaction entirely.
She hated how he got under her skin. Hated that her pulse always quickened around him not because she liked him (she didn't), but because he was the only person who ever pushed her. Everyone else either deferred to her or avoided her entirely. But Noah? He stood toe to toe.
Still, he was infuriating. Too polished. Too perfect. Too good at knowing exactly when to turn on that boyish smirk.
She flipped to the back of her notebook, the one with her poetry scribbled in the margins careful to keep it hidden under a sheet of blank paper.
Her hand hovered briefly over the page.
She didn't write anything. Not yet.
But for the first time in months, a line came to her.
He walks like sunlight doesn't dare touch him
and still, it follows.
She shut the notebook quickly, her face blank, her heart strangely loud in her chest.
It was going to be a long year. She wondered, not for the first time, what new debate or challenge this year would bring. She had no idea it would involve an old rival. Or her heart.