When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter Three: Law of Inertia

Willow Harrison's POV

"That asshole!" I cursed out, feeling the frustration bubble over.

"You know, hearing you curse is like music to my ears," Emily teased, taking a sip of my strawberry milk drink with a mischievous grin. She stood against the railing of the small trail near our school, watching me with that usual mixture of amusement and mild concern. "You know, I’ve known both you and Oliver forever, and somehow, after all these years, you're still competing with each other. It's almost like you two can’t help it."

I shot her a glare, the anger still simmering under my skin. Emily chuckled, clearly enjoying the rare moment of me being this fired up. "Right. No talking. Go ahead."

I gritted my teeth, taking a deep breath before I let it all out. "I f*****g hate you, Oliver Clarke! I hope you choke and die! You narcissistic playboy and egotistical maniac!"

Emily blinked at me, her eyebrows arching in surprise. "That's a little extreme."

I threw my hands up in the air. "I’m a people-pleaser, and I'm not even sorry for what I just said! That's how much I really hate him!"

I flopped down onto the grass beneath us, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "I don’t care, Em. It’s just... I worked hard for that presidency, and I've won it fair and square! And what? He just takes it like that? And I’m supposed to just sit back and accept it?"

"Vice president is not too bad." Emily tried comforting me. It sucked.

"It is! Especially if the president is Oliver Clarke!" I rolled my eyes, unable to hide the frustration bubbling up again. "I mean, his first plan is to have some acquaintance party for the previous years so they could meet us seniors. That's such a waste of the school's budget that could have been used for scholarships!"

Emily raised an eyebrow, looking at me with that amused expression she always wore when I was on a rant. "You're telling me that you're mad because of a party?"

I groaned, throwing my head back dramatically. "Yes! A party! When there are way more important things we could be doing! Do you think Oliver cares about the students or their futures? No, all he cares about is looking good and getting his little social event for the 'class of greatness' while real issues go unnoticed."

"But come on, stop being the perfect Willow Harrison for a while and think about it. It's a party! All the students could use a distraction after the preliminaries, don't you think? Sure, I may be in class D, which is third to last, but I get tired from all that studying too!"

I gnawed at the sound of that. Perfect Willow Harrison—like some unspoken legacy I have to upkeep or everything shall come to ruin.

"Honestly, if I were in charge, it’d be a fundraiser. Not a glorified i********: event for Oliver’s ego," I protested, feeling the heat rise in my chest. "People like you and Oliver wouldn't get it. Your family is rich. I can only study at the same school because of the scholarship, and Oliver has it—he doesn't even need it!"

Emily raised an eyebrow, unfazed by my outburst. "It's mandatory to give scholarships to the first and second ranks," she pointed out, her tone surprisingly calm. "Besides, just because Oliver's rich doesn't mean he can't enjoy the fruits of his labor. Do you have any idea how good it feels to not be a burden because you have a scholarship? Hell, if I could, I'd strive for one too."

"Besides," Emily added, "If you wanted it that badly, then why give the presidency to Oliver that easily anyway? Over some video of you punching him? Come on, it's not a big deal."

But for me, it is. I get anxious just thinking about it.

I get it. I said to myself, but never out loud, because I knew Emily wouldn't agree with me, and I didn't want her to think that I was just being stubborn. But there are people like me who struggle every day just to stay afloat. And then there are people like Oliver, who walk around with everything handed to them on a silver platter and think they can do whatever they want.

People like him taking opportunities like those are harmless to them because rich people can afford to lose it. But poor people like me? We can’t.

I would never say it out loud. Not to Emily, and definitely not to Oliver. It wasn’t just about pride, though. It was about the truth that no one wanted to face—that a simple mistake or misstep by someone with privilege could cost me everything I had. While they could brush it off, I had to claw my way back up if I fell.

The presidency isn't just a position; it's my window for college scholarships. These days, just being smart isn't enough; just being good at sports won't cut it either—you have to be good at everything.

And I know that well enough to not be distracted.

I'm not someone like Oliver Clarke, who can afford to play around with parties and girls, because everyone knows that even if he fails, he can always strive for the next best thing. But I can't. I won't.

So, when Oliver starts planning his big social events, thinking the world revolves around his popularity, I can't help but feel a little resentful. He's not fighting for his future; he's already got his laid out.

I can't help but be envious of my classmates who only have to worry about whether they pass or fail because, for them, it's just another round of scolding. But if I fail, it’s not just a setback. It’s the end of everything. My chance of finishing my studies goes up in smoke, and I’ll be greeted by everyone’s disappointed looks—disappointment that’s harder to bear than any scolding. I don’t just have to succeed; I have to keep succeeding, or I risk losing everything.

Like an object in motion that has to stay in motion at constant velocity.

“Harrison.” Oliver’s voice rang out across the vast field as he strode toward me. “The student council has to wear the costumes I prepared for the acquaintance party; get yours at the meeting room,” he announced. “Also, we need to come up with something for the juniors.”

I didn’t even turn to face him. “This is my territory. One more step, and you break the deal.”

That was the rule: to keep our arguments from escalating into campus-wide events, we established territories—places on school grounds the other weren’t allowed to enter. Spaces of solitude.

Lucky for me, all Oliver wanted was the music room in the old, half-abandoned building. A perfect compromise.

Although I can guess why Oliver would want such a place. How disgusting.

The deal dated back to seventh grade, after a fight spiraled out of control. To prove who was better, we stayed awake for four whole days straight, studying and taking over all school activities. We were so obsessed with outdoing each other that year, we ended up overseeing all the school activities—every single one.

From events to decorations to petty things like which snacks to serve, we took over everything.

By the end of the year, everyone hated us.

Teachers, students, even the cleaner avoided eye contact. It was impressive, in its own way. Back then, I didn't realize just how much was at stake, so I was reckless. It was around that time that I started overthinking everyone else's opinion but mine.

We both ended up in the hospital and even there, it turned into a competition over who could recover faster.

We didn’t talk about it—of course not—but the territories were drawn, the unspoken rules laid out. And from then on, we operated like bitter co-presidents of a country divided in two. Civil, but barely.

“I got tired of looking all over you,” he said sarcastically. “I might stay awhile. Enjoy the view.”

“Go away—” I opened my mouth to protest, to launch into a long-winded lecture about boundaries, which Oliver clearly didn't understand the first thing about—but I stepped back too fast. My heel caught on the uneven grass at the edge of the field. Gravity, of course, did its thing.

There was that split second where your body knows you’re going down, but your brain hasn’t caught up yet.

And then strong arms caught me mid-fall.

Momentum stopped.

Like an object in motion that should've stayed in motion unless acted upon by an external force.

I blinked, stunned.

Oliver was annoyingly close. His grip was firm and steady. And for once, his expression wasn’t smug—it was serious. Concerned, even. “Is your precious territory really more important than your neck?” he asked, his voice low.

I hated that—for just a second—my heart might’ve skipped.

I hated it even more that I didn’t have a comeback ready.