Him and Her

He challenged her to a fight—and how could she even think about refusing? He was the best, at everything, and she finally had a chance to prove that she was better. That she was smarter and stronger and faster than he could ever be. And he couldn’t even imagine the possibility—the sheer incredible chance that she could ever surpass him.

Him. A boy. A man. She could never go beyond what he had achieved, because of a single simple truth: he was male and she was not. So to prove her own worth—her value and strength—she accepted. How could she even think about refusing?

The fight went as planned—for her at least—brutal and vicious and more intense than any battle he had fought before.

And in the end, she was victorious. She had won, triumphed, overcome the hurdle that was her underestimated gender.

She looked him in the eyes and gloated in her victory, relished the height she had achieved and the valor she had earned. She had proven him wrong— proven men wrong—for thinking she was weak, that she could never go beyond what he had achieved, simply because he was male and she was not.

But he did not look defeated.

He did not look disappointed or lessened or brought low by the shame of losing to her. He looked her in the eyes and acknowledged her strength—that it was as he suspected and she was greater than he was—that he had far more to learn. He did not look defeated.

He looked exhilarated, glad for the challenge, ready to grow stronger and take on the next.

She looked at him and knew then that she was the one who had lost—for feeling inferior and weaker and lesser than him when truly, he only thought of her as the best.