There are some stories that begin before we even know how to name them.
Mine began in a dusty playground with scraped knees, broken pencils, and a boy named Makla.
Makla was not my friend. He was my rival, my enemy, my constant headache in primary school.
He sat two desks behind me and had this annoying habit of leaning forward just to find a mistake in my work, smirking like he'd won a trophy.
His favorite hobby was beating me in math quizzes, then smiling mischievously to make sure I noticed.
And I always noticed.
We fought over everything: turns at the water point, who had the cleaner desk, who answered the teacher's question better.
Our "wars" were never serious — but to me, he was the most irritating boy alive.
At least, that's what I told myself.