Born just 13 months apart, they competed over everything: grades, attention, sports, who got the front seat. Their parents tried to be fair, but fairness sometimes felt like favoritism. Lena was quieter, more introspective, good with words. Max was loud, athletic, magnetic—he soaked up praise like a sponge.

By high school, their rivalry had hardened. Max teased Lena constantly. Sometimes it was jokes, sometimes it was cruel. Lena brushed it off until it started happening in front of people—friends, teachers, even her crush.

One afternoon, after school, they were alone in the garage. Max had taken her journal and was reading lines aloud in a mocking tone. Lena begged him to stop. He didn’t. Something snapped.

She grabbed the first thing she could—her heavy algebra textbook—and hurled it at him.

It struck his temple.

He dropped to the ground.

For a few terrifying seconds, he didn’t move. Then he groaned, clutching his head, blood dripping between his fingers.

Lena froze. The weight of what she’d done dropped on her like a stone. She called their parents. The ambulance came. Max had a concussion and needed stitches. She wasn’t arrested, but things changed.

Max never teased her again. He barely spoke to her at all.

They were in the same house but never in the same room. The silence was worse than the rivalry.

Months later, Lena stood outside his bedroom door, guilt still heavy. She knocked once. No answer. She pushed the door open.

He was playing a video game. His voice was cold. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I said it before, but I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… felt like I didn’t matter.”

He paused the game. Looked at her.

“You matter,” he said, quietly. “I just didn’t know how much I was hurting you. I thought we were just playing.”

She nodded. “We weren’t.”

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Then he gestured at the extra controller. “Want to play?”

She sat down beside him.