When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter One: Controlled Variables

Willow Harrison's POV

I’ve been in this position a thousand times before: sitting at the edge of my seat, pen poised, every inch of me tuned into the task at hand. My foot taps rhythmically beneath the desk, a motion that matches my steady breathing—barely noticeable.

The auditorium hums with the nervous energy of students, but I’m calm, collected—perfectly in control. At least, I try to appear to be. The only thing worse than losing would be making a mistake and breaking down—don’t break down. I tell myself. If I ever become vulnerable, I’m done for.

This is it, the final round of the campus academic competition. The perfect first challenge to maintain my flawless record for this school year as a Grade 12 student before transitioning to college is the last hurdle before I leave school, and I can add another gold star to my name. My name. The one everyone expects to see at the top.

The clock ticks down, the seconds stretching longer with each passing moment. I glance at the podium where the moderator waits, looking almost bored.

Perfect. I have to be perfect. I quickly fixed my posture and hair as I continued checking my answers. I’d finished about 30 minutes ago, but I didn’t want to seem overly confident and obnoxious, only to realize I had a mistake I could’ve corrected. So I double-checked and triple-checked. Every answer. Every detail.

But my eyes wander to the side—there he is. Oliver Clarke. Sitting so casually with that signature smug expression of his, as if he’s already won. The sharp lines of his jaw, the way his black hair falls right to emphasize that annoying glint in his eyes that always seems to say, “I’m going to beat you.” I can practically hear it in my head after years of actually hearing him say it. Relentlessly

I hate him. Deeply, madly, and irrevocably.

Not because he’s smart—because I can handle smart. Smart is something I can work with.

Not because he's team captain of the basketball team—because I’m the team captain and first in rank for badminton women in our school. I’ve got my own trophies to stand tall with. Thank you very much.

Not because he's taking over half the school with his accomplishments—because I own the other half. I’m just as decorated and just as recognized.

No. I hate him simply because he's Oliver Clarke.

The single most obnoxious human being to ever exist.

I hate the way he walks into a room like he’s the sun, and we’re all just orbiting around him—helpless, insignificant satellites. And the worst part? Girls practically melt at his feet. And he knows it. Oh, he knows it. He treats girls like pen toppers—fancy, disposable, and only useful if they make him look good.

I hate his smirk—the one that says, “I know I’m better than you, but I’ll let you think you have a shot anyway.”

I hate that he’s rich. That he doesn’t have to try anything—not grades, not scholarships, not approval—yet he tries anyway, like it’s a game to him. Like winning just for the sake of winning isn’t infuriating to those of us who actually need it.

I hate how much I care about beating him. How much it consumes me. How even the sound of his name is enough to derail my entire day.

I hate—

“-And Oliver Clarke from Class A is done with 20 more minutes to spare.” My thoughts were interrupted as I heard the commentator utter his name as the first competitor to finish.

The commentator’s voice echoes through the auditorium like a starting gun for my spiral. I don’t even have to look. I can feel him turning around in his seat.

And then—yes. There it is.

Without fail, Oliver Clarke glances back at me. Smirking. Like clockwork. He mouths something, cocky and slow, like he knows I’ll hear it even without sound. “Try to keep up, Harrison.”

A voice slides into my thoughts, just as smoothly—just as obnoxiously.

Uninvited. Unapologetic. Unbothered.

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see the back of my skull and stand up, paper in hand. I submitted it exactly thirty seconds after him. Just enough to avoid looking like I’m chasing, not enough to be forgotten.

Outside the stadium, the sun hits too brightly on a day already filled with headaches. And there he is.

Oliver Clarke, in all his maddening glory. Casually leaning against the railing like he didn’t just declare academic warfare twenty minutes ago. Shirt untucked. Necktie loose. That stupid smirk was practically stitched onto his face.

“You know,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet mine, “if you keep handing things in right after me, people are going to start talking.”

I exhale slowly. Through my nose. Like a rational person. Like someone who won’t commit murder before college applications are due.

"People only talk about results," I say, smoothing my skirt with a practiced grace.

"Oh?" Oliver snickers, tilting his head with that infuriating glint in his eyes. "Will you be the one to call my name when they announce me the winner?"

I don’t even blink. “What a good idea,” I say sweetly. As the newly elected student body president, I’ll ask the principal to have you, my loyal vice president, announce my name at the next opening ceremony. Maybe they’ll even let you rehearse in front of a mirror first—get all that practice pretending to be humble.”

He laughs. Loudly. Easily. Like I’ve said something funny instead of something sharp.

That’s the thing about Oliver Clarke. You throw daggers, and he wears them like they’re cufflinks.

“You know,” he says, walking beside me deliberately looking down on me because I'm shorter, “we could always just agree to tie for once. Save everyone the trouble.”

I scoffed. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? A tie means you get to say you’re just as good as me without actually proving it. You and I both know that everything apart from being first is the same as losing.”

We do. Despite our obvious differences, there's one thing we can agree on: the winner takes it all.

He leans in slightly, just enough to make my skin crawl. “No, Harrison. A tie means you don’t have to admit I might be better.”

I stop walking.

So does he.

“Keep dreaming, Clarke.”

He grins. “Every night, Harrison.”

And then he walks off to his fan girls—uniform a mess, ego intact, and still somehow managing to look like he owns the whole damn world.

Because if life has controlled variables, Oliver Clarke is the exception.