The Last Blow

The silence didn't last.

By the time the week was over, the fight reignited, fiercer than ever. It wasn't shouting matches in the hallways or arguments over nothing—no, this time, it was worse. It was the sharp-edged remarks, the deliberate avoidance, the way they both seemed determined to act like the other didn't matter while making sure their absence did.

Caesar found himself lingering in places he knew Blythe would be, just to see if she'd acknowledge him. She didn't. She spoke to everyone around him, laughing, talking, acting like everything was fine.

It shouldn't have hurt.

But it did.

And that, more than anything, made him want to lash out.

---

It finally snapped in the worst possible place—during a history presentation.

They weren't even in the same group, but Blythe had finished hers first and taken a seat, arms crossed as she watched the rest of the class.

Caesar was halfway through explaining something when he saw it—Blythe, whispering something to her friend, glancing his way with a smirk.

He knew that smirk.

It was the one she used when she thought he was being stupid.

Something in his chest tightened.

The words on the page blurred. His voice, once steady, wavered. He could feel it—his confidence unraveling, his anger rising.

And when the teacher called for questions, Blythe raised her hand.

His stomach twisted.

She tilted her head, voice sickly sweet. "So, Caesar, are you saying that's the only reason for the war? Because it kinda sounds like you didn't research the other factors."

A few chuckles rippled through the class.

Caesar clenched his jaw. "That's not what I said."

She hummed, feigning innocence. "Oh, maybe I just misheard."

He knew what she was doing. She wasn't just correcting him—she was picking at him, pulling threads just to see when he'd unravel.

And it was working.

He forced a smile. "Well, since you love explaining things, maybe you should've been the one presenting instead."

Blythe's eyes narrowed. "I would've, but, you know, some of us actually prepare instead of talking out of our—"

"Enough." The teacher cut in before she could finish.

But the damage was done.

Blythe was fuming.

Caesar was shaking.

And as he took his seat, he realized something.

This wasn't just a fight anymore.

This was them, falling apart.

---

The classroom was suffocating.

Even after the lesson moved on, Caesar could still feel the tension buzzing in the air. Blythe was only a few seats away, but it felt like there was an entire battlefield between them.

She wasn't looking at him.

But she didn't have to.

He could feel her anger radiating, thick and undeniable, pressing against his skin like a weight he couldn't shake off.

And for the first time, he wondered—when had it gotten this bad?

Had it been gradual, a slow-burning fire that neither of them had noticed until it was too late? Or had it always been there, waiting for the right moment to explode?

Either way, there was no going back now.

---

At the end of the period, Blythe was the first to leave.

Caesar should've let her go.

Should've ignored the way her shoulders tensed as she passed him, the way her hand gripped the strap of her bag just a little too tightly.

But he didn't.

Instead, he followed her out into the hallway, steps quick and deliberate.

"Blythe."

She kept walking.

"Blythe."

Nothing.

He reached out, grabbing her wrist before she could disappear into the crowd.

She snapped.

"What? What do you want, Caesar?"

Her voice was sharp, cutting through the noise of the hallway like a knife.

A few students glanced their way, sensing the tension, but neither of them cared.

Caesar let go of her wrist, but he didn't back away. "You just had to do that, didn't you?"

Blythe scoffed. "Oh, please. You've been acting like a total ass for weeks, but I'm the problem?"

"You humiliated me in front of everyone."

"You humiliate yourself every time you open your mouth."

His jaw tightened. "You're so damn—"

"What? Say it." She stepped closer, chin lifted. "Say whatever you're dying to say."

He didn't know what he was going to say.

All he knew was that his hands were shaking, his chest was tight, and for the first time, he didn't recognize the person standing in front of him.

Because this wasn't them.

Not really.

They used to be different.

Didn't they?

Blythe's glare faltered for a fraction of a second, like she was thinking the same thing.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"Whatever, Caesar." Her voice was quieter now, more tired than angry. "I'm done."

And this time, when she walked away, he didn't try to stop her.

Because maybe, just maybe—

She meant it.