Chapter 10
The results go up at exactly 8:12 a.m.
Students gather instantly.
The hallway is loud.
Electric.
Unstable.
Kaito is vibrating beside Emilia.
"I don't want to look."
"Then don't," Hana says calmly.
"I need to."
"That contradicts your first statement."
"I am a contradiction."
Yui leans forward dramatically.
"Top two duel time."
Emilia doesn't respond.
Her chest is tight.
Not from illness.
From anticipation.
Ren steps up beside her.
Close enough that their shoulders nearly touch.
He doesn't look at her.
He looks at the board.
Calm.
Always calm.
The crowd shifts.
A space opens.
They step forward together.
The board comes into focus.
Names.
Percentages.
Rankings.
Emilia's eyes scan automatically.
First line.
Her breath stops.
Emilia Laurent — 97.6%
Ren Takahashi — 97.6%
Silence crashes inside her head.
Tie.
Her pulse jumps once.
Hard.
She scans again.
No mistake.
Same score.
Same rank.
Exact.
Ren exhales softly beside her.
Not disappointed.
Not triumphant.
Just aware.
Kaito pushes through the crowd.
"Did I—"
He stops mid-sentence.
"...What."
Yui blinks.
"Oh."
Hana crosses her arms slowly.
"That's interesting."
The hallway noise shifts.
Whispers ripple outward.
"They tied?"
"Again?"
"Exact?"
Emilia doesn't move.
Her brain is calculating.
One tenth was manageable.
Second place was measurable.
But equal?
Equal means no edge.
No distance.
No excuse.
She turns her head slightly.
Ren is already looking at her.
Not smug.
Not amused.
Just steady.
For one second—
Neither speaks.
The world around them continues.
But the space between them tightens.
"You're not ahead," she says quietly.
"You're not either."
"That is obvious."
"Yes."
Silence.
Kaito stares at the board like it personally offended him.
"How does that even happen."
Hana replies calmly, "They're evenly matched."
Yui grins slowly.
"That's romantic."
"It is not," Emilia snaps immediately.
Ren says calmly, "It's not."
Simultaneous.
Again.
The crowd begins to disperse.
But the whispering doesn't stop.
Equal.
The word follows them like an echo.
Inside the classroom, the tension shifts.
Students glance at them differently.
Not just top two.
Now something else.
Balanced.
Linked.
Emilia takes her seat carefully.
Her pulse is still elevated.
Ren sits across from her.
He doesn't speak immediately.
He opens his notebook.
Like it's any other day.
Infuriating.
She leans slightly forward.
"You miscalculated something."
He looks up.
"No."
"You must have."
"I didn't."
She narrows her eyes.
"I don't tie."
"You did."
"I don't."
"You did."
The rhythm returns.
Comforting.
Grounded.
But different now.
She exhales sharply.
"This is inconvenient."
He tilts his head slightly.
"Why."
"Because."
"Because what."
She doesn't answer.
Because the truth is absurd.
Because tying feels more intimate than losing.
Because it means he's exactly beside her.
Not behind.
Not ahead.
Beside.
And that's more destabilizing.
First period begins.
The teacher smiles knowingly.
"Congratulations to our top scorers."
Murmurs.
Applause.
Emilia keeps her expression neutral.
Ren nods politely.
"Consistency," the teacher continues, "is admirable."
The word consistency lingers.
Emilia writes the date down with precise pressure.
Her mind is not precise.
Her mind is loud.
Equal.
Equal.
Equal.
Ren leans slightly toward her.
Low voice.
"You're overthinking."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I am evaluating."
"You're spiraling."
"I am not."
He pauses.
Then:
"You don't like not being ahead."
She freezes.
That hits too close.
"That is not accurate."
"It is."
"I do not need to lead."
"You want to."
Silence.
She grips her pen slightly tighter.
"You don't?"
He looks at her.
Longer this time.
Measured.
Then—
"No."
That answer unsettles her more than arrogance would have.
"You don't care?"
"I care."
"About what."
He doesn't respond immediately.
Just looks at her.
Then says quietly:
"About staying."
Her breath catches.
"Staying what."
He doesn't clarify.
He doesn't need to.
The implication lingers between them.
Staying equal.
Staying close.
Staying aligned.
Her pulse spikes.
She looks away first.
Again.
She hates that pattern.
Break time.
Kaito collapses into his chair.
"I am irrelevant."
"You passed," Hana says.
"Barely."
Yui leans across the desk toward Emilia.
"You tied."
"Yes."
"How does that feel."
"Neutral."
"That's a lie."
"It is not."
Yui grins.
"You don't like it."
Emilia narrows her eyes.
"I prefer clarity."
"Clarity?"
"Hierarchy."
Ren, without looking up, says quietly:
"You don't want hierarchy."
Her head snaps toward him.
"You do."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
He finally looks at her.
Steady.
"You want certainty."
That word lands differently.
She freezes.
Certainty.
He's right.
She wants structure.
Predictability.
Edges.
Tie means ambiguity.
Ambiguity means—
Something unspoken.
Something emotional.
She exhales slowly.
"Then next time, win properly."
He tilts his head slightly.
"You're challenging me."
"Yes."
"You don't need to."
"I do."
"Why."
She leans closer.
French, low and sharp:
"Parce que sinon... on reste à égalité."
(Because otherwise... we stay equal.)
Ren's eyes sharpen slightly.
He understands.
Of course he does.
English reply, quiet:
"And that scares you."
Her heart slams.
"It does not."
"It does."
"No."
"Yes."
The rhythm is familiar.
But the tension beneath it is not.
This is no longer about grades.
And they both know it.
At lunch, whispers continue.
Students glance.
Smile.
Speculate.
Yui announces dramatically, "The power couple tied."
Emilia nearly chokes on water.
"There is no couple."
Ren says calmly, "There isn't."
Again.
Synchronized.
Kaito slaps the table.
"You are unbelievable."
Hana sighs.
"I need quieter friends."
Emilia looks at Ren.
"You're too calm."
"You're not."
"That is irrelevant."
He studies her carefully.
Then says quietly:
"You don't have to outrun me."
Her breath catches.
"I am not outrunning you."
"You are."
"I am competing."
"You're hiding."
Silence.
That word lands heavier than the others.
Hiding.
She looks at him sharply.
"What am I hiding."
He holds her gaze.
Long.
Measured.
Then—
"Not yet."
The phrase again.
Soft.
Loaded.
Her heart skips.
She hates that phrase.
She waits for the day he stops saying it.
She fears it too.
The bell rings.
They stand.
Walk side by side down the hallway.
Not touching.
Equal pace.
Equal score.
Equal presence.
She exhales slowly.
"This is temporary."
"Yes."
"Next time, I win."
"Maybe."
She narrows her eyes.
"You're not confident anymore."
"I am."
"Then say it."
He glances at her.
Calm.
"I'll win."
Her stomach flips.
There it is.
The edge returns.
Good.
Safe.
But the way he says it—
It doesn't feel like he's talking about the exam.
And that realization lingers as they walk.
Equal.
For now.
Unstable Balance
Equality is unbearable.
Emilia realizes this immediately.
Not because she dislikes Ren winning.
Not because she fears losing.
But because equality means—
They are aligned.
Aligned means synchronized.
Synchronized means visible.
And visible is dangerous.
She sits straighter during the afternoon review session.
Her pen moves faster.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
She will create distance.
Immediately.
Ren sits across from her again.
Of course.
Their desks touch slightly.
She notices.
She doesn't move them apart.
She should.
She doesn't.
Kaito stares at the board.
"I demand a rematch."
"It was a simulation," Hana replies.
"Then simulate again."
Yui grins.
"Oh, this is perfect. Tie-breaker arc."
Emilia doesn't respond.
Her mind is already racing.
If they tied—
That means they missed the same number of questions.
Which means—
They made the same mistake patterns.
Which means—
They think similarly.
That thought is more destabilizing than second place.
Ren glances at her.
"You're doing it again."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I am calculating."
"You're spiraling."
Her jaw tightens.
"I do not spiral."
"You do."
"I do not."
"You do."
She slams her pen down.
Quietly.
Controlled.
But harder than necessary.
"Then let's fix it."
Ren tilts his head slightly.
"Fix what."
She leans forward.
Eyes sharp.
"The tie."
Silence.
The air shifts.
Kaito slowly turns.
Yui leans closer.
Hana watches without blinking.
Ren doesn't look away.
"How."
"We review every mistake."
"We already did."
"We didn't review why we matched."
He pauses.
That's new.
She presses forward.
"We eliminate overlap."
"You want differentiation."
"Yes."
"Why."
"So it doesn't happen again."
He studies her carefully.
Then says quietly:
"You're afraid of staying equal."
Her pulse spikes.
"I am not."
"You are."
"I prefer clarity."
"You prefer distance."
Silence.
That word lands heavier than expected.
Distance.
She doesn't respond immediately.
Because he's not entirely wrong.
And that annoys her.
"Tu m'énerves."
(You irritate me.)
English reply.
"You're nervous."
"I am not nervous."
"You are."
She leans closer.
French, sharper:
"Je n'ai pas peur de toi."
(I'm not afraid of you.)
Ren's eyes darken slightly.
English, low:
"I know."
Her breath catches.
That answer is too calm.
Too confident.
She needs to destabilize him.
Immediately.
She flips her notebook open.
"Speed round."
Ren blinks once.
"What."
"Ten questions. No hesitation."
"You're racing."
"Yes."
"You're not fully recovered."
"I am fine."
He almost smiles.
Almost.
"Sure."
Kaito sits upright instantly.
"Are we witnessing a duel."
"Yes," Yui whispers dramatically.
Hana mutters, "Please focus."
Emilia doesn't look at them.
Her eyes are locked on Ren.
"Ready."
"Yes."
"Question one."
They fire through equations.
Back and forth.
Rapid.
Precise.
Almost synchronized.
Which irritates her more.
She increases speed.
Pushes harder.
She answers question six faster than him.
A small spark of victory.
Then question seven—
He answers first.
By half a second.
She sees it.
Her pulse spikes.
"Again," she demands.
"You're intense."
"Again."
"Fine."
They repeat.
Faster.
Kaito's head moves like he's watching a tennis match.
Yui looks delighted.
Hana sighs.
They tie again.
Silence drops.
Emilia's heart pounds.
"You hesitated," she says.
"You did."
"No."
"Yes."
She slams the notebook closed.
"This is inefficient."
"You're pushing too hard."
"I am competing."
"You're compensating."
Her eyes flash.
"For what."
He doesn't answer immediately.
Just watches her.
And that silence feels louder than accusation.
She stands abruptly.
The chair scrapes.
"I need air."
Again.
The hallway is quieter now.
Late afternoon light streaking through windows.
She walks faster than necessary.
He follows.
Of course he does.
"You're running," he says.
"I am walking."
"You're upset."
"I am not."
"You are."
She spins toward him.
"I do not like ties."
"I know."
"Why."
"Because it means you can't define us."
Her breath stutters.
"Define what."
He steps slightly closer.
Not touching.
But close enough.
"Competition."
Her throat tightens.
"It is competition."
"It's not only that."
Her pulse roars.
"You're overanalyzing."
"No."
"Yes."
Silence.
Her hands tremble slightly.
She hides them behind her back.
He notices.
Of course.
"You don't need to outrun me," he says quietly.
"I am not outrunning you."
"You are."
"I am setting pace."
"You're setting distance."
That word again.
Distance.
She leans closer.
French, low and sharp:
"Si on reste égaux... je perds le contrôle."
(If we stay equal... I lose control.)
The sentence slips out before she can stop it.
It hangs in the air.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Ren's eyes soften.
English reply.
"You already did."
Her breath catches.
"What."
"You lost control weeks ago."
Her heart slams violently.
"That is not true."
"It is."
"When."
"When you started caring."
Silence detonates.
Her throat tightens.
Her hands tremble more visibly now.
He sees it.
He always sees it.
"You're wrong," she whispers.
"Am I."
"Yes."
"Then prove it."
The challenge lands.
Different from before.
Not about exams.
About emotion.
She stares at him.
Chest rising.
Pulse racing.
She could.
She could step back.
She could laugh.
She could turn it into teasing.
Instead—
She whispers:
"Tu crois tout comprendre."
(You think you understand everything.)
English.
"No."
"You do."
"I understand enough."
That word again.
Enough.
She hates that word.
She hates that he keeps using it.
She hates that she's waiting for the day he answers fully.
"Win next time," she says finally.
"I will."
"You're confident."
"Yes."
Silence.
They stand there longer than necessary.
The air between them charged.
Competitive.
Unstable.
She steps back first.
Regains distance.
"I will not tie again."
He tilts his head slightly.
"Maybe we won't."
Her stomach flips.
Because that didn't sound like a grade prediction.
And she knows it.
They walk back to the classroom.
Side by side.
Not touching.
Equal pace.
But the energy has changed.
The tie didn't create distance.
It exposed it.
And she is dangerously close to admitting that she doesn't want to win if it means losing him.
She hates that thought.
She pushes it away.
For now.