But tonight, when the city goes dark and our armies of ambition sleep, I will think of you. The only worthy opponent. The only soul who sees me clearly and still chooses to duel.
So no, I will never let you win easily. And you would despise me if I did.
The war is the thing that keeps us alive.
Not in the way others did—glancing over, scanning for threat or use. You looked . You took a seat across the café, folded your hands, and smiled like we had already met in a dozen different lifetimes. Each one ended badly. Each one was worth it.
We fight like lovers and plan like thieves. You steal my calm; I crack your armor. In every boardroom, every chess match, every midnight argument on a rain-soaked balcony—you push, and I refuse to break. It’s the only dance either of us knows. The music is a blade. The floor is a promise.
Once, you said, “I want to win, but I don’t want you to lose.”
You were the first to notice me.
That was the moment I knew. Not love—something rawer. Something that doesn’t need a name. You are the fire I set myself against to stay sharp. You are the flaw in my mirror that keeps me honest.