For as long as I could remember, Aryan and I had been rivals.

It started in school—competing for the highest grades, the best projects, the teacher’s praise. Then it spilled onto the cricket field, where every match felt like a war. Even after school, we somehow found new battlegrounds—college debates, job interviews, promotions. If I was there, so was he. If he won, I had to win next.

It wasn’t hatred. Not exactly. But I knew one thing: I never wanted to be on his side.

So when life, in its twisted sense of humor, threw us together, I almost laughed. Almost.

Then the storm hit overnight.

No warnings, no time to prepare—just a brutal downpour, winds strong enough to tear through rooftops, and rivers overflowing onto the streets. I woke up to my mother’s frantic voice, water already seeping through the doors. Within minutes, it was knee-deep. The power was out, the streets were flooded, and our house—our safe, familiar home—had turned into a trap.

"Beta, we have to leave," Ammi said, hurriedly stuffing clothes and important documents into a plastic bag.

"But how? Everything is underwater!"

The rain continued to lash against the windows, drowning out my words. I tried calling for help, but my phone had no signal.

Our only option was the relief center, a makeshift shelter set up in the school building—one of the few places that hadn’t been swallowed by the flood. Getting there meant wading through the murky, debris-filled streets, but we had no choice.

The journey was brutal. Cold water up to our waists, broken wires hanging dangerously, shattered glass floating past. By the time we reached the school, we were drenched, exhausted, and barely able to stand. The courtyard was packed with people—some injured, others crying, everyone desperate. Volunteers were moving around, handing out food and blankets. I had just guided Ammi to a safe spot when I heard a voice that made my stomach twist.

"You look like hell."

Aryan.

Of course, he was here.

I turned to find him standing there, soaked to the bone, sleeves rolled up, handing out supplies like he ran the place. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was too drained.

"Yeah, well, natural disasters don’t exactly bring out my best look," I muttered.

He smirked but didn’t fire back. That was odd. Aryan never missed a chance to one-up me.

"Here." He tossed a dry towel my way.

I stared at it. "What’s this?"

"A towel. Generally used to dry yourself. Thought even you would know that much."

There he was.

I wanted to throw it back at him, but I didn’t have the energy for another battle. Not today. I took it, muttered a quiet 'thanks’ and went back to Ammi.

The next morning, the real work began.

The storm had left behind a mess—collapsed houses, stranded families, people searching for missing loved ones. Volunteers were needed, and I wasn’t the kind of person to sit back while others struggled.

So I helped. Carrying crates of food, distributing blankets, and assisting the injured. And every time I turned around, Aryan was there.

At first, it was a competition—who could do more, who could work faster. If I carried five crates, he carried six. If he cleared a room for shelter, I set up two.

But then, the competition blurred into something else.

A little girl, no older than six, was sobbing in a corner, clutching a waterlogged teddy bear. No one could find her parents. I didn’t know what to say to her, but before I could even approach, Aryan was already kneeling beside her.

"Who is this?" he asked, pointing at the teddy bear.

The girl sniffled. "Muffin."

"Muffin? He looks really strong," Aryan said, gently pressing the teddy’s arm. "I think you’re strong like Muffin too. Aren’t you?"

She didn’t respond, but her sobs quieted.

I watched as he handed her a chocolate bar and promised they would find her parents. And for the first time, I saw Aryan without the rivalry—just a guy who knew how to help.

That night, we sat by the school corridor, too exhausted to move. The power was still out, but someone had lit a few lanterns, casting long shadows on the walls.

"You ever think we’d be working together instead of against each other?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Aryan let out a short laugh. "Not in a million years."

I smirked. "Feels weird."

"A little." He glanced at me. "But not bad."

I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But in that silence, something shifted.

The next day, we worked side by side without keeping score. We helped an old man find his lost medicines, pulled out soaked schoolbooks for a boy who cried over them, and even shared a cup of the terrible chai (tea) the volunteers had made.

And then the hardest task came.

A family was trapped inside a half-submerged house, their calls for help barely audible over the roaring water. The walls had started to crack, and the door was jammed. No one could reach them.

Aryan looked at me, and for the first time, there was no competition in his eyes. Just determination.

"We have to do this together," he said.

I nodded.

It took everything we had—pushing, pulling, breaking through debris—but we got them out. A mother, a father, and two terrified children. As they clung to each other, sobbing in relief, I felt something shift inside me.

Maybe rivalry was just another way of being connected. Maybe, without competition, we weren’t so different after all.

By the time the roads cleared and the floods receded, things had changed. Not just in the town, but between us.

As we packed up the last of the supplies, Aryan turned to me. "You still planning on being better than me at everything?"

I grinned. "Of course."

He shook his head, laughing. "Good. I’d hate for you to get soft."

I didn’t say it, but I knew—we weren’t just rivals anymore. We were something more.

And for the first time, I didn’t mind standing beside him instead of against him.