2025-10-01, 05:06 PM
To be honest, it’s not like we got along well from the beginning. Back when we were in middle school, he and I were in different homerooms. And when we moved up to freshman year, we ended up in different friend groups too. So even though we talked a little here and there, it wasn’t enough to really say we were close friends.
My name is Marcus, from Mars (the ruling planet of Aries), because I was born in April. His name is Justus, which means “just” or “fair,” representing Libra’s scales-of-justice motif. We were both born on the 17th. However, we didn’t think much of it—no one did; it was just a coincidence.
Honestly, I knew he was a good person—but I don’t know… maybe it was because he was quiet and calm, and always hung out with the “academics” crowd. That’s probably why I didn’t pay much attention to him. Or, worse than that—maybe I even kind of resented him a little.
Because if you compared us, I was the class athlete: loud, outgoing, with tons of friends. He, on the other hand, was one of the top students in class, always smiling, and constantly surrounded by people—not all that different from me, really.
It’s not like I was bad at school or anything. We never even had a falling out. But for some reason, I always saw him as this low-key rival—someone I didn’t want to lose to in anything at all.
Then we got paired up for tennis in gym class. And just my luck, the teacher wouldn’t even let us switch partners. It wasn’t like Justus was terrible or anything—he just wasn’t experienced. I had friends who already knew how to play, but I wasn’t allowed to team up with any of them.
“Hey, Justus. When it’s time for the skills test, the score’s by pair, alright? So, play properly, okay? Hurry up and learn how to play already. Got it?” I said to him while we were listening to Coach Davis explain the drill.
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry I’ve never played tennis before. But I’ll try, alright?” he replied without even looking at me.
“Are you being sarcastic right now?” I frowned.
“No. Is that really what you heard?” he turned to meet my gaze.
That was the first time I realized he could be such a smartass.
After that, I started feeling even more annoyed at him—because I never thought he’d actually dare talk back or mess with me like that. But more than anything, what surprised me was that he still kept talking to me and treating me like normal.
It made me wonder… maybe he really wasn’t being sarcastic that day.
Time passed until the third week of tennis. By then, Coach Davis had already finished teaching all the basics—how to hold the racket, footwork, the fundamentals. It was time for us to start rallying. Honestly? I really didn’t want that moment to come, because I seriously hated running around picking up balls. And the late-morning sun around 11 AM didn’t help calm my mood one bit.
“Dude, angle your racket properly, will you? If you hit it like that, the ball’s gonna fly every time.” I showed him the correct grip. “Come on—go pick up the balls yourself.”
“Alright, alright! I said I’m sorry!”
“Tighten your damn wrist! Are you even a guy or what? Damn!” I sighed and walked off to grab a loose ball near the net.
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry!”
“SHIT!! My face!” I yelled, startled, as his volley shot came flying straight at me so fast I barely managed to dodge.
“Shit! I’m sorry! Marcus, I swear I didn’t mean to!”
I turned to him, annoyed. “You really didn’t mean it, huh, Justus? You’re not trying to get back at me or anything, right? Shit, it almost hit my face. And is ‘sorry’ the only word you know how to say? Whatever. Break time—I’m burning up out here.”
“I really didn’t mean it, dude. Why the hell would I want to get revenge on you?” he said, jogging to catch up.
So the two of us walked off together to hide from the sun under the big oak by the fence.
“You seriously gonna make it through this? That was just a simple front-net hit and you already look done. I think you’d be better off practicing against the backboard before you try volleying with me again.”
“I’m trying, okay? But it doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted, crouching down with his head lowered.
“Trying what exactly? And what’s not enough?”
“I…” He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Forget it. Next time I’ll do better. But if you’re worried about the grade, you could ask Coach Davis to pair you up with someone else—at least for the skills test or whatever.”
“Really? We can do that? I thought she wouldn’t let us,” I said, a little hopeful.
“You could try asking, man. I don’t know either. It’s not like I want to drag you down and ruin your score or anything. I know I’m not good, but you already know how to play—and you’re pretty good too. So…”
I frowned and leaned in. “Are you being sarcastic again right now?”
“No. Why would I be sarcastic?” he said.
“Good. I don’t like people talking to me like that,” I snapped as I walked back to the court, annoyed.
To be honest, it’s not like I actually hated his guts or anything. And I didn’t really find him that annoying either—or look down on him for not being able to play tennis.
Okay, okay… maybe I did find him a little annoying and looked down on him a bit. I admit it. But it wasn’t that bad, okay? I’m not a jerk. In fact, I’d say I’m a pretty decent guy. The real issue, though, was that for some reason, every time I talked to him, I’d end up picking a fight, cutting him off, contradicting him, or just randomly shutting him down.
Sometimes I wondered if he hated me too—he always seemed to say stuff that sounded sarcastic or like he was trying to piss me off.
Still, we’d never had a real fight, which was honestly a good thing. Because if we ever did get into it, I’d have no idea how to deal with it—especially since we were stuck as tennis partners for the whole damn term.
“Hey, Marcus! Let’s play soccer before we go home!” Chubby—my closest friend, whose his real name is August—called out to me one afternoon after school.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go!” I replied without hesitation.
“You too, Justus! Come play soccer with us! Hurry!” Chubby shouted past me, calling out to Justus, who was sitting by the window.
“Dude, why are you asking him?”
“What? Why not? Justus’s actually pretty good at soccer.”
“That’s not the issue here.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“…Nothing. It’s nothing.” I gave in and let it go.
“Nah, I’ll pass. I have to head home early today,” Justus shouted back.
“Why not? Can’t play soccer? Or do you need to rush home to do homework? Wow, such a good boy, huh?” I turned to tease him. “Ohhh, right—you’ll practice hitting the backboard, right?”
“What the hell is your problem, Marcus?” he replied.
My name is Marcus, from Mars (the ruling planet of Aries), because I was born in April. His name is Justus, which means “just” or “fair,” representing Libra’s scales-of-justice motif. We were both born on the 17th. However, we didn’t think much of it—no one did; it was just a coincidence.
Honestly, I knew he was a good person—but I don’t know… maybe it was because he was quiet and calm, and always hung out with the “academics” crowd. That’s probably why I didn’t pay much attention to him. Or, worse than that—maybe I even kind of resented him a little.
Because if you compared us, I was the class athlete: loud, outgoing, with tons of friends. He, on the other hand, was one of the top students in class, always smiling, and constantly surrounded by people—not all that different from me, really.
It’s not like I was bad at school or anything. We never even had a falling out. But for some reason, I always saw him as this low-key rival—someone I didn’t want to lose to in anything at all.
Then we got paired up for tennis in gym class. And just my luck, the teacher wouldn’t even let us switch partners. It wasn’t like Justus was terrible or anything—he just wasn’t experienced. I had friends who already knew how to play, but I wasn’t allowed to team up with any of them.
“Hey, Justus. When it’s time for the skills test, the score’s by pair, alright? So, play properly, okay? Hurry up and learn how to play already. Got it?” I said to him while we were listening to Coach Davis explain the drill.
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry I’ve never played tennis before. But I’ll try, alright?” he replied without even looking at me.
“Are you being sarcastic right now?” I frowned.
“No. Is that really what you heard?” he turned to meet my gaze.
That was the first time I realized he could be such a smartass.
After that, I started feeling even more annoyed at him—because I never thought he’d actually dare talk back or mess with me like that. But more than anything, what surprised me was that he still kept talking to me and treating me like normal.
It made me wonder… maybe he really wasn’t being sarcastic that day.
Time passed until the third week of tennis. By then, Coach Davis had already finished teaching all the basics—how to hold the racket, footwork, the fundamentals. It was time for us to start rallying. Honestly? I really didn’t want that moment to come, because I seriously hated running around picking up balls. And the late-morning sun around 11 AM didn’t help calm my mood one bit.
“Dude, angle your racket properly, will you? If you hit it like that, the ball’s gonna fly every time.” I showed him the correct grip. “Come on—go pick up the balls yourself.”
“Alright, alright! I said I’m sorry!”
“Tighten your damn wrist! Are you even a guy or what? Damn!” I sighed and walked off to grab a loose ball near the net.
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry!”
“SHIT!! My face!” I yelled, startled, as his volley shot came flying straight at me so fast I barely managed to dodge.
“Shit! I’m sorry! Marcus, I swear I didn’t mean to!”
I turned to him, annoyed. “You really didn’t mean it, huh, Justus? You’re not trying to get back at me or anything, right? Shit, it almost hit my face. And is ‘sorry’ the only word you know how to say? Whatever. Break time—I’m burning up out here.”
“I really didn’t mean it, dude. Why the hell would I want to get revenge on you?” he said, jogging to catch up.
So the two of us walked off together to hide from the sun under the big oak by the fence.
“You seriously gonna make it through this? That was just a simple front-net hit and you already look done. I think you’d be better off practicing against the backboard before you try volleying with me again.”
“I’m trying, okay? But it doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted, crouching down with his head lowered.
“Trying what exactly? And what’s not enough?”
“I…” He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Forget it. Next time I’ll do better. But if you’re worried about the grade, you could ask Coach Davis to pair you up with someone else—at least for the skills test or whatever.”
“Really? We can do that? I thought she wouldn’t let us,” I said, a little hopeful.
“You could try asking, man. I don’t know either. It’s not like I want to drag you down and ruin your score or anything. I know I’m not good, but you already know how to play—and you’re pretty good too. So…”
I frowned and leaned in. “Are you being sarcastic again right now?”
“No. Why would I be sarcastic?” he said.
“Good. I don’t like people talking to me like that,” I snapped as I walked back to the court, annoyed.
To be honest, it’s not like I actually hated his guts or anything. And I didn’t really find him that annoying either—or look down on him for not being able to play tennis.
Okay, okay… maybe I did find him a little annoying and looked down on him a bit. I admit it. But it wasn’t that bad, okay? I’m not a jerk. In fact, I’d say I’m a pretty decent guy. The real issue, though, was that for some reason, every time I talked to him, I’d end up picking a fight, cutting him off, contradicting him, or just randomly shutting him down.
Sometimes I wondered if he hated me too—he always seemed to say stuff that sounded sarcastic or like he was trying to piss me off.
Still, we’d never had a real fight, which was honestly a good thing. Because if we ever did get into it, I’d have no idea how to deal with it—especially since we were stuck as tennis partners for the whole damn term.
“Hey, Marcus! Let’s play soccer before we go home!” Chubby—my closest friend, whose his real name is August—called out to me one afternoon after school.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go!” I replied without hesitation.
“You too, Justus! Come play soccer with us! Hurry!” Chubby shouted past me, calling out to Justus, who was sitting by the window.
“Dude, why are you asking him?”
“What? Why not? Justus’s actually pretty good at soccer.”
“That’s not the issue here.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“…Nothing. It’s nothing.” I gave in and let it go.
“Nah, I’ll pass. I have to head home early today,” Justus shouted back.
“Why not? Can’t play soccer? Or do you need to rush home to do homework? Wow, such a good boy, huh?” I turned to tease him. “Ohhh, right—you’ll practice hitting the backboard, right?”
“What the hell is your problem, Marcus?” he replied.