You& ME

St. Rosalia’s Academy was not just a school—it was a legend cloaked in ivy. Nestled

between hills of polished green and pathways lined with old stone, the institution stood like a

castle of discipline, prestige, and whispered secrets. The kind of place where the children of

politicians, CEOs, and film stars shared lunchboxes filled with imported chocolates and

thousand-rupee bills folded in their pencil pouches.

Every hall reeked of old money, ancient rivalry, and the unspoken motto: Win. But make it

elegant.

The structure itself looked like it had been plucked out of a British novel and dropped into a

blooming garden—tall, with pointed towers, stained-glass windows, and vines crawling up its

chest like the breath of history. The air smelled like wet pages and ambition.

By 8:55 AM, the garden near the main building was bursting with students, their crisp

uniforms blindingly white against the green.

Bags were slung with casual arrogance, and every shoe was polished like it had something to

prove.

A sudden wave of noise pulled everyone’s attention toward the giant notice board in front of

the admin block. It was an unspoken tradition—on result days, that notice board became the

throne. And only two names had ever ruled it.

“Move! Move! I can’t see!” a boy yelled, his perfectly styled hair falling into his eyes.

The crowd huddled tighter, eyes narrowing, breaths held.

And then—

A name. Two names. Side by side. Again.

Misha Raheja

Arjun Verma

The top scorers. Again.

Misha’s name typed in bold, her percentage sharp and nearly perfect. Arjun’s trailing by

0.1%, like always—but enough to keep the battlefield open.

A gasp. A slow clap. A few awkward glances.

And then the school bell rang, slicing through the tension like a knife through satin.

Inside the gleaming hallway of Class 12-A, students rushed to their seats, some whispering

bets on who’d top the finals. Teachers knew better than to get involved.

The moment Miss D’Souza entered with her file, her heels echoing, she glanced at the back

where two magnets sat—polar opposites but always drawn into the same orbit.

“Misha. Arjun.” she said, as if tired already. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Alright, geniuses,” she said, scanning the room. “Let’s wake up those neurons. Who can tell

me the difference between competitive and non-competitive inhibition?”

Silence.

And then—two hands. Instantly.

Misha and Arjun.

Of course.

Mrs. D`souza sighed. “Misha?”

Misha stood, her voice clear. “In competitive inhibition, the inhibitor resembles the substrate

and competes for the active site. In non-competitive inhibition, the inhibitor binds elsewhere,

changing the enzyme’s shape. Easy.”

“Arjun, do you want to add anything?”

Arjun didn’t even stand. He simply replied, “Just that competitive inhibition can be overcome

by increasing substrate concentration. Non-competitive cannot.”

Their eyes locked

From the back, a girl sighed dramatically.

“Here we go again. The academic couple from hell.”

St. Rosalia’s Academy wasn’t just a school—it was an ecosystem. A carefully manicured

bubble of brilliance and legacy, where students were expected to be the best, and most of

them already came from the best. Glass-paneled classrooms, a botanical rooftop garden,

international guest lectures—everything screamed prestige. Yet, among the legacy kids, the

name Misha Raheja carried a certain quiet weight.

She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t need to be.

Her presence was crisp like freshly turned pages—neat uniforms, spotless shoes, and a gaze

that could make teachers pause mid-sentence. Everyone knew who she was. Her family name

wasn’t paraded—it was respected. While others clung to their designer backpacks and

gadgets, Misha walked light. Her wealth was in her silence, in the confidence of someone

who never needed to shout.

Every morning she took the corner seat in class—second row, center view. Her handwriting

was pristine, her questions sharp, and her test scores untouchable. Until the new boy arrived.

Arjun Hooda.

The scholarship student. The anomaly.

He entered with quiet eyes and a tattered file of certificates. No introduction ceremony. No

last name to echo. Just merit. Pure, unfiltered merit. He listened more than he spoke and

answered only when he had something precise to say. His mind worked like a scalpel—

cutting deep, clean, and without effort.

First test? He rankedsecond.

Second test? He was first.

By one mark.

Her mark.

The class had whispered. Misha hadn’t.

She didn’t flinch. She simply flipped the page, nodded once, and that evening, she rewrote an

entire chapter just to understand how he had managed that. She never spoke about it—but the

flame was lit.

For Arjun, Misha wasn’t just another privileged student. She was...something else.

She didn’t boast. She didn’t falter. And most of all, she noticed everything. When he solved a

calculus question faster than her, her eyes narrowed—not out of annoyance, but calculation.

She studied his methods. Mocked his notebook layout once, then began using it the next

week.

What began as academic rivalry soon twisted into something deeper.

Every time he raised his hand, she did too.

Every time she made a point, he had a sharper counter.

No one knew whether they were trying to defeat each other or impress each other. Maybe

both.

In the library, they sat on opposite ends—but always within earshot. In class, they’d

challenge each other under the guise of intellectual discussion, but their voices always carried

a little too much edge. Too much spark.

Neither admitted it, but both were obsessed.

She was the girl from old wealth and quiet power.

He was the boy with nothing but brilliance and a refusal to lose.

And the war they started?

It wasn’t about being first.

It was about being seen by the only person who could match them.

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