Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 113

I don’t see Chase coming.

That’s the cruel part—how life keeps moving just enough that you forget to brace.

I’m leaving the library with my backpack slung over one shoulder, notes sticking out at odd angles, head full of half-formed arguments for my next paper. The sun is low, campus washed in that soft gold that makes everything look kinder than it actually is.

“Zoey.”

I freeze.

I know that voice the way you know a scar—by the way your body reacts before your brain catches up.

I turn slowly.

Chase stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying something heavy. He looks worse than the last time I saw him. Thinner. Tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. His eyes flick over me, sharp and searching.

“So,” he says. “It’s true.”

I blink. “What is?”

He laughs under his breath. “You and Daniel.”

My stomach tightens. “There is no ‘me and Daniel.’”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “I’ve seen you. Everyone’s seen you.”

“Seen me what?” I ask. “Walking? Talking? Existing?”

He steps closer, voice low. “Moving on.”

The word lands like an accusation.

“I’m allowed to move on,” I say.

“Already?” he fires back. “After everything?”

I stare at him, stunned by the audacity. “After everything? You cheated on me.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. I’m not pretending I didn’t screw up.”

“Then what are we doing here?” I ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I just— I thought you’d take more time.”

“To grieve you?” I ask flatly.

His jaw tightens. “To grieve us.”

“There is no ‘us,’” I say.

He flinches like I’ve struck him.

“You’re acting like I didn’t matter,” he says.

“You mattered,” I reply. “You don’t get to own my healing.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. Students pass by, glancing curiously but not stopping. This is our mess, contained in the space between us.

“So what,” he says finally. “You just replace me?”

I laugh, sharp and incredulous. “Replace you? Chase, I didn’t upgrade phones. I survived a breakup.”

He scoffs. “With him?”

“With myself,” I snap. “With friends. With work. With not drowning.”

He shakes his head. “You’re blaming me for everything.”

“I’m holding you accountable,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

He steps closer again. “And Ellen? You’re still mad about that?”

My chest tightens. “You don’t get to say her name like it’s a minor detail.”

He looks away. “I told you I hated myself for it.”

“And I told you that wasn’t enough,” I reply. “Self-loathing isn’t growth.”

His eyes flash. “So now you’re the expert?”

“No,” I say. “I’m the one who kept asking you to try.”

He laughs bitterly. “You think you’re better than me now.”

I pause. Breathe.

“No,” I say slowly. “I think I’m moving. And you’re angry that you’re not.”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps.

“It is,” I reply. “You’re not mad because I’m with Daniel. You’re mad because I’m not waiting.”

His face crumples for just a second. “I still love you.”

The words hit, familiar and dangerous.

“I know,” I say quietly.

“Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me?” he asks.

“I’m not punishing you,” I say. “I’m choosing myself.”

He steps back, shaking his head. “You moved on too fast.”

“No,” I say. “I stayed too long.”

The truth settles between us like a verdict.

“You blame me for Ellen,” he says suddenly. “But you were already gone.”

I feel something snap.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“You were distant,” he presses. “You were thinking about other people.”

“I was thinking about a future,” I snap. “One you refused to imagine with me.”

“You’re rewriting history,” he says.

“No,” I reply. “I’m finally telling it straight.”

He exhales harshly. “So that’s it? You walk away and I’m just… the bad guy?”

“I’m not writing you as a villain,” I say. “I’m removing myself from a cycle.”

He stares at me, eyes glassy. “I thought you’d always come back.”

The admission guts me.

“That’s the problem,” I say softly. “You thought I’d wait. You thought I’d shrink.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I continue. “Not the checking-in. Not the guilt. Not the watching you spiral while I hold my breath.”

“I never asked you to fix me,” he says.

“No,” I reply. “You just punished me when I didn’t.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me.

“Zoey,” he says, voice breaking. “Please.”

The word used to undo me.

Now it just hurts.

“This is where it ends,” I say. “Not angrily. Not dramatically. Completely.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means no more emotional ties,” I say. “No late-night talks. No ‘what ifs.’ No circling each other like unfinished business.”

He swallows. “You’re cutting me off.”

“I’m letting go,” I correct.

His eyes flick to the library behind me. “And Daniel?”

“Is not your concern,” I say. “And not my escape.”

Silence again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says quietly.

“I know,” I reply. “But you did.”

He nods slowly, like the weight of it is finally sinking in.

“I hope you get better,” I say. “I really do.”

“And if I do?” he asks.

I meet his eyes. “Then you’ll be better for yourself. Not for me.”

He looks away first.

I turn and walk toward the quad, heart pounding, legs shaking. I don’t look back. I don’t wait for him to call my name.

I keep walking.

Because some endings don’t need closure.

They need distance.

Later that night, I sit on my bed, phone face down beside me. My chest aches—not with longing, but with finality.

I think about everything we were. Everything we tried to be.

And then I think about who I am now.

Stronger. Clearer. No longer tethered to someone else’s stagnation.

Ending emotional ties doesn’t mean erasing love.

It means refusing to let it keep hurting you.

I breathe deeply, steadying myself.

This time, I don’t feel like I’m running away.

I feel like I’m standing still long enough to let the past finally pass me by.