Ethan
The aftermath of our late-night text session was a strange, unspoken shift in our dynamic. We were still rivals, still co-chairs, still partners in a massive deception. But now, there was an undercurrent of something else. A shared secret that had nothing to do with the bet and everything to do with the people we were behind the personas.
Our public appearances became more frequent and, to my alarm, more natural. A staged coffee date on the library steps turned into a real conversation about our post-graduation fears. A planned photo-op at a university football game led to us staying for the whole game, shouting at the refs and sharing a bag of popcorn. I found myself looking forward to these "strategic" outings, not for the political points, but for the chance to spend time with her.
But the campaign trail was a constant, harsh reminder of the reality of our situation. We were still opponents, vying for the same prize.
One afternoon, I was hosting a Q&A session with the business school students. It was my home turf, and I was in my element. I was talking about my plan to create a student-run investment fund, a practical, smart idea that even Olivia would have to admit was impressive.
"We have the talent right here at Westridge to manage a real portfolio," I was saying, feeling the energy of the crowd. "It's about giving students real-world experience, not just textbook theories."
As I was speaking, I saw her. Olivia was standing at the back of the lecture hall, partially hidden behind a pillar. She wasn't there to heckle or disrupt. She was just watching, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She was scouting her opponent.
Seeing her there, so serious and focused, threw me for a loop. I momentarily lost my train of thought. She was my rival, here to assess my weaknesses. But she was also the girl who had texted me until 2 AM, the girl whose laugh was a rare and precious sound. The duality was jarring.
I recovered quickly, finishing my speech to a round of enthusiastic applause. As the crowd dispersed, she walked toward me.
"A student-run investment fund," she said, her tone analytical. "It's an ambitious idea."
"Ambitious gets things done," I said, echoing her own words back to her.
A small smile touched her lips. "It's also a logistical nightmare. The legal hurdles, the university oversight… it would take months just to get it approved."
"Or it would take a president who knows how to cut through red tape," I countered, falling back into our familiar rhythm of debate. "Someone who isn't afraid to push the administration."
"Or someone who makes promises they can't keep," she shot back, but there was a playful glint in her eyes. "You're good at this, Brooks. You've got the business school locked up."
"And you've got the humanities and social sciences in the palm of your hand," I said. "I saw the video of your town hall on arts funding. You were… formidable."
It was true. I had watched it in my dorm room, mesmerized. She had spoken with such passion and intelligence, effortlessly fielding complex questions. She was brilliant, and a part of me, the part that wasn't her opponent, was deeply proud of her.
"So we're at a stalemate," she said. "The campus is divided."
"Seems that way," I agreed. "Which makes our little… arrangement… all the more important. The 'Ethivia' supporters could be the swing vote."
She winced at the name. "We need to be careful. The more real this looks, the more people we're deceiving."
"Or the more we're giving the people what they want," I said, my voice dropping lower. I took a step closer to her. "They want a story. They want to believe that two people who are supposed to be enemies can find common ground. Maybe even… something more."
I was talking about the campaign, but I wasn't. We both knew it. The air between us was thick with unspoken words. I wanted to tell her that I didn't care about the swing vote, that I just wanted an excuse to see her, to talk to her. But I couldn't. The bet was a wall between us, a wall we had built ourselves.
"The campaign trail is a dangerous place, Brooks," she said softly, her gaze searching mine. "It's easy to lose sight of what's real and what's for show."
"And what do you think this is?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Before she could answer, a group of my business school supporters approached me, slapping me on the back and congratulating me on my speech. The moment was broken. Olivia gave me a small, unreadable look and slipped away, disappearing into the crowded hallway.
I was surrounded by my own people, my own cheering section. But as I smiled and shook their hands, I felt a profound sense of loneliness. I was winning over my base, but I was losing the only person who saw beyond the performance. The campaign trail had never felt so empty.