When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter Four: Coefficient of Friction

Willow Harrison's POV

I blinked again, trying to shake off that weird flutter in my chest.

Before I could even process it, Emily’s voice cut through the air, making me snap back to reality. She was holding up her retro camera—because, apparently, that is the trend now.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she snickered. “I’m just posting this to the Willow-Oliver, or should I say, WiVer fan club.”

She took a picture of us and giggled.

I froze. My stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot.

I hated social media. I hated the idea of a digital footprint. The internet was something you couldn’t control, something you couldn’t take back. It was terrifying.

"Are you going to post that?" I asked, my voice tight, though I tried to sound casual.

Emily tilted her head, her grin widening. "Why? Should I mention you?" she teased, her finger hovering over the camera roll as she transferred the photos from her camera.

I could feel my chest tighten. Of course, I had my accounts. I couldn’t exactly let people think I was some weird kid with no social life. I posted regularly, with curated photos—each one meticulously planned. I would plan the entire feed before even posting a single photo, making sure every one of them fit the aesthetic I had set for the month. The photos, the filters, the angles—they had to be perfect.

God, I even had a list of possible captions. All ready to go. Clever, witty, slightly elusive but never too revealing. The kind of stuff that looked spontaneous but was anything but.

“Mention me.” Oliver snickered, clearly enjoying the chaos he was about to stir up. "In the post."

Emily grinned mischievously and handed him her phone. As soon as he had it, I could already feel the tension building, my heart skipping a beat. What was he going to do?

Oliver’s fingers worked fast, and just as quickly as he had the phone, he handed it back to Emily. “There you go,” he said, his voice thick with mock sweetness.

Emily stared at him, her mouth hanging open. “Hey! You deleted it. Not fair! ”

Oliver just shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting into that usual smug grin of his. “My bad,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He glanced over at me, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if assessing whether I was actually going to make this more difficult. "Are you coming or do I have to carry you all the way there?"

I blinked, snapped out of my thoughts, and looked at him. "Right. The practice," I muttered, already feeling the weight of the impending chaos. “I am.”

"You're having a performance at the acquaintance party?" Emily asked. "The last time you had one was in 7th grade. The talent competition and we all know how that turned out."

She made dramatic explosion noises and threw her hands in the air. "Boom. Total chaos."

I shot her a look. "You’re never letting that go, are you?"

"Willow," she said seriously, leaning in as she was about to deliver national news. "You set off the smoke machine too early, Oliver sang the wrong lyrics, singing some love song, and you two knocked over the mic stand trying to argue about it."

I groaned. “It was one time.”

"It was only because Willow wouldn’t let me sing," Oliver chimed in.

"It wasn’t what we planned!" I shot back.

“Exactly because it’s a surprise performance,” Oliver said, as if that somehow justified the chaos.

"One memorable time indeed," Emily said.

"Fine, but it won't be anything like that," I said, slowly calming down from earlier, "This is just some performance to entertain the juniors."

I could almost hear Emily’s chuckle behind us as we started walking. "God, you two are ridiculous,” she called after us. “It’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck. I can't wait to see what happens next."

Oliver didn’t respond, but I could feel the tension in the air. There was a kind of unspoken challenge between us—one that had been there since forever. And no matter how hard I tried to escape it, it always pulled me right back in.

We walked side by side, the rhythm of our footsteps almost matching, though it wasn’t exactly comfortable. I cast a sidelong glance at him. There it was again—lipstick, smudged shamelessly across the collar of his white shirt, like a signature left behind on purpose. His tie, navy with barely-there pinstripes, hung loose around his neck, tilted defiantly to the side. His sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, revealed ink stains on his wrist and a faint bruise on his forearm.

I rolled my eyes at the sight of it. How typical of him.

I sighed, not bothering to hide the sound. "Will it hurt you to clean up a little? Are you deliberately showing off the entire student body that their president is a playboy or some sort of walking scandal?"

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t even flinch. He just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and gave me that sideways glance—lazy, amused, irritating. “Will it hurt you not to notice every tiny detail most people ignore?”

I stopped short. “Most people don’t have to share a stage with you tomorrow at the assembly.”

He finally turned to face me, fully this time, the hallway light catching the slight golden hue in his eyes that most people don't notice. “And most people don’t look at me like you do.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. “Like what?”

"Like that." He flicked my forehead with the same casual arrogance.

I slapped his hand away, “You're insufferable.”

“That's the charm.” He slowed just enough to let me catch up, which somehow made it worse. Like he knew I’d follow. "Wouldn’t want to disappoint."

“You’re doing an excellent job, then,” I muttered sarcastically.

He grinned wider with a sarcastic tone matching mine, “Not too bad yourself—though you could work on your delivery. Needs more scowl, or is it resentment? You pick."

I rolled my eyes, resisting the urge to snap back.

As we reached the practice room, no one else was there yet; the air was thick with resentment, like a coefficient of friction keeping us locked in place, forcing us to stay in each other’s orbit despite every instinct telling us to keep our distance. The more I hated him, the more I seemed to be drawn in—unwillingly, of course.

But then, of course, he had to say something stupid. "No one's here yet. I know how much you hate being the last to arrive because you hate the attention. Also, there are strawberry drinks in the fridge. God, you have to stop giving some to Emily. I always end up buying more."

"Who even told you to buy more? You know everyone else, including you, hates strawberries."

"Except you." Oliver said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was explaining some profound truth. "That's why."

On rare occasions, the coefficient of friction is near zero, and things move smoothly. But it can never be zero.

Some girl went inside the room, her uniform clearly adjusted to fit her body too tightly, way outside the regulations. Her lipstick, though, was the most obvious thing about her. It was smeared all over, messy and obvious.

And, of course, it matched the stain on Oliver’s collar perfectly.

"Grace, what are you doing here?" Oliver's voice was sharp, a clear annoyance slipping through his usual arrogance.

But Grace didn’t seem to care. Without a word, she leaned in and kissed him, her hands already moving toward his collar. Instinctively, I turned around. That was my cue to leave. I wasn’t about to stick around and watch this mess unfold, especially not when I could already picture their clothes scattered all over the floor.

But before I could take a full step, my fingers gripped the back of my collar, tugging me backwards like I was some dog on a leash. "Harrison, where do you think you're going?" Oliver’s voice was low, annoyed.

"Away. Obviously," I said flatly. "I’ll come back once practice starts."

"You hate coming in late."

"Trust me, I’d hate staying here more."

"Leave," he said, suddenly sharp.

"You don’t have to ask me twice—" I began, already pulling away, but he didn’t let go. Then Oliver's voice cut through, cold and clipped: "Leave now, Grace, we’re over. Let’s break up."