love always, noah | Rewriting

Chapter One: Arch Nemesis

❝Some people are like catchy songs—you try to ignore them, but they always find a way to get stuck in your head.❞

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There are few constants in life. Gravity. Taxes. The fact that I can never find matching socks no matter how many I buy. And, of course, Noah West: my personal arch nemesis since elementary school.

Somehow, since the age of seven, Noah West has been a thorn in my side. Every class, every test, every assignment—we've been neck and neck, competing for the top spot. He's the Golden Boy of our high school—blonde hair, perfectly tousled like he just rolled out of bed (but we all know he spends at least fifteen minutes getting it like that), ocean blue eyes that have the audacity to twinkle when he smirks, and that easy, confident charm that makes everyone around him fall at his feet.

Except me. I've never fallen for his act.

Not even in third grade, when we first went head-to-head over the class spelling bee. I still remember the word—rhythm. I spelled it right, and for a moment, I thought victory was mine. But then Noah stood up, casual as ever, spelled his word correctly, and gave me a smug little look that said, I've got this in the bag. And he did. He won that year. But I vowed right then and there, as he accepted his gold sticker, that I would never lose to him again.

Spoiler alert: I lost. A lot.

In fourth grade, it was the science fair. Noah built some elaborate solar system diorama that lit up and rotated—completely unnecessary, if you ask me—while I'd spent weeks perfecting my volcano eruption, complete with actual lava (okay, baking soda and vinegar, but still). I was sure mine was cooler, more scientifically sound, and definitely more fun to watch. But, once again, Noah walked away with first prize, his diorama spinning lazily as he grinned at me from across the gym.

Then there was middle school. History reports, math tests, art projects—we competed over everything. I can't even tell you how many times we ended up in a tie for highest grade in the class, leaving the teachers smiling as though they found our rivalry amusing. Spoiler alert again: it wasn't.

Secondary school? It's only gotten worse. From vying for class president (I won, by the way, but only by three votes), to AP Chemistry where Noah aced the final without breaking a sweat while I pulled two all-nighters just to get the same score. It's infuriating, really. The way he never seems to try and still manages to come out on top half the time. Meanwhile, I'm meticulously planning every step, every assignment, every test, while Noah waltzes through life with that stupid, lazy smile plastered across his face.

We even rivalled in gym class. Most people think gym doesn't count, but when you're trying to beat Noah West in the mile run, believe me, it counts. And don't get me started on the time we had a push-up competition during junior year PE. I was doing fine—better than fine—until Noah decided to flash me that smug grin, throwing off my concentration and causing me to collapse face-first into the mat. To this day, I swear he did it on purpose.

But the worst part? Noah doesn't even seem to take any of it seriously. He acts like it's all some big joke, like he's having the time of his life while I'm over here plotting ways to finally beat him at something. Anything.

There's just one problem. Noah West is annoyingly, frustratingly good at everything.

"Morning, Winters," Noah's familiar voice drawls, breaking through my thoughts as he slides into the seat next to me in AP Calculus, his signature smirk already in place. Of course, he had to sit next to me. The universe wouldn't have it any other way.