MY BARBARIC PRINCE

"Miraiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," Garp called out my name, dragging it out in a slow, half-hearted way, like someone who's way too bored to care.

I felt his finger poke my cheek, and for a split second, my face went hot. But I quickly masked it, pretending to stay focused on my notes. Without looking at him, I slapped his hand away. "What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?" My voice was a bit sharper than usual, but I kept my cool—at least, that's what I told myself.

"Can you meet me after school? Just you and me, alone?" he asked, his tone casual but deliberate.

Wait, what? My heart skipped a beat. Alone? What did he mean by that? I somehow managed to keep a straight face, though my thoughts were spiraling. "Why? Do you need help with something?" I replied, keeping my tone as neutral as I could.

"Hmm, yeah, kind of," he said with an easy shrug.

"Oh... okay," I answered, my chest tightening with a confusing mix of disappointment and relief. It had been one week till

I glanced back at my notes, but the words were blurred. After all this time, he still hadn't changed. That nonchalant charm, that casual confidence, that barbaric- scary face, that bad guy aura were as hot as I remember.

I could still recall the first day I saw him. It was during the middle school.

Ever since I was a kid, I was treated like a princess. My parents weren’t rich, but they spoiled me with so much care and attention. It made me feel like the center of the universe—like the world was revolving around me.

Then, a pipsqueak came along. It was my little brother. At first, I thought he was cute, but soon enough, I realized I was trapped in his evil scheme. Little by little, he stole my parents’ affection, and I couldn’t stand it. That stupid, innocent smile of his—the one they called "adorable"—was somehow so powerful that even I would occasionally find myself charmed by it. Ugh, whatever, that's beside the point. The truth was, my parents started caring for him more than me, and that drove me crazy.

When they were out, I’d pinch that little devil's cheek or flick his head just to watch him cry. It felt like sweet revenge, but seeing him upset made me feel a guilty. What was wrong with me? I was supposed to hate him, wasn’t I? But instead, I'd end up patting his back to calm him down, as if I was comforting him. Argh! what am I even saying? I’m supposed to despise him!

At school, things were different. Some students were lost in their own little worlds, talking, laughing, and fooling around. Others were buried in their VR simulation games or data-sim chips, studying or zoning out. I preferred staying silent, observing them from a distance. Honestly, I didn’t get why they were so eager to blend in with the crowd, acting like NPCs in a world they had no control over. But now that I think about it, maybe I was just avoiding them because I didn’t know how to approach them. It wasn’t that I didn’t want attention. In fact, I craved it. I wanted all of it. But, what if they thought I was just like them? What if they thought I was as ordinary as them? What if they got the wrong idea that someone like me was their equal? That wasn’t right. I was much better and superior than them. So, I couldn’t lower myself to their level.

I spent most of my time studying back then, and to be honest, I really enjoyed it. But everything changed during middle school when a certain transfer student showed up and turned my world upside down just by being there. That student was Garp.

The first time I saw him, something inside me shifted, something I didn’t even know existed. He was tall, with spiky blond hair and sharp teeth that added to his intimidating aura. His piercing eyes had a way of scaring people, but to me, they were mesmerizing. That was the moment I realized—turns out, I’m totally into bad boys.

On his very first day, he casually called our homeroom teacher, Mr. Thomson—who happens to be an AI robot—a “metal scrub” right to his face. The whole class froze in shock. Of course, he got punished, but he didn’t care. Not one bit. He was the walking embodiment of chaos, and it annoyed me to no end that someone so unruly and barbaric could attract so much attention. I mean, seriously, how could someone like him overshadow someone as brilliant and lovely as me?

And that wasn’t all. He somehow started a secret “tournament arc” at school. Students from every grade would gather to fight each other with nothing but their fists—no skill-sim chips, no fancy gadgets, just pure, primal brawling. He called it the “Primitive Arena,” and people loved it. Sure, he got suspended countless times, but that didn’t stop him. Nothing ever did. Once, he even threw something as ancient as paper airplanes in the middle of class. Where did he even find that relic in this day and age?

Ugh, it drives me crazy that this barbaric idiot gets so much hype, as if the world revolves around him. No! The world should revolve around me not him. But the worst part was that, the more ridiculous things he did, the more drawn to him I felt.

In middle school, we barely spoke. The closest I got to him was during a class photo scanning session when we ended up standing next to each other. For some reason, he kept staring at my ponytail. Why was he staring? What was so interesting about my ponytail? That night, I barely managed to sleep, my mind spiraling into a hundred what-ifs.

When we graduated, I thought I’d never see him again. It hurt—this unspoken, one-sided crush of mine. Well, "hurt" might be a stretch. It’s not like he even knew I had feelings for him. Still, I was ready to move on. Or at least, I thought I was.

And then, fate decided to mess with me. On the first day of high school, there he was. Garp was sitting not just anywhere but right next to me. It turned out that he was my new desk neighbor.

He hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still the same chaotic, barbaric prince I secretly adored back then. But of course, I can’t let him know that. Why would I ever lower myself to confess my feelings to someone so primitive? Absolutely not.

Lately, though, he’s been getting way too touchy. A few days ago, he stretched my cheeks like they were made of rubber, and I could barely keep my face from going bright red. I felt so warm, I thought I might melt. And now, he’s started poking my cheeks or grabbing my hands while talking, completely oblivious to how flustered it makes me.

I hate him. I hate that dense, clueless idiot. Hmph! Not that I mind it all that much, though.

The alarm blared, signaling the end of the school day. I gathered my things and headed out, my mind already on Garp. He’d slipped out earlier in the middle of class—typical. It wasn’t like anyone could stop him. He’d told me to meet him in front of the second storage room, now repurposed as the cooking club.

When I reached the door, I knocked twice. The person who opened it wasn’t Garp, though. Instead, a boy with an orange bob haircut peered out, blinking at me like I was some kind of glitch in his system.

He must’ve been the club member Garp mentioned, but I wasn’t in the mood for introductions. “Excuse me,” I said, nudging past him before he could start talking.

The room had undergone a transformation. The cold, metallic storage shelves now held an eclectic collection of spices, jars, and kitchen tools. The air was rich with a mix of aromas—cinnamon, something tangy, and a faint burnt smell that lingered like an afterthought.

What caught my attention most, though, wasn’t the shelves or the smells. It was the vibe of the place. It didn’t look anything like the sterile, ultramodern spaces of the 31st century. The dim, warm light of an old-fashioned bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a golden glow. Wooden chairs, scuffed and imperfect, stood around a weathered table. Even the decorations—hand-painted pots and woven fabric draped over the counter—seemed like relics from some forgotten era.

And there he was. Garp, leaning casually against the wall like he owned the place. His hair was even messier than usual, a rogue strand sticking up like it had a mind of its own. A smudge of frosting decorated his cheek, giving him the look of someone who’d been caught mid-crime but didn’t care. His grin was as wide as ever, the kind that made you wonder if he knew something you didn’t.

CHAPTER 7 END