Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 111

POV: Chase

I used to think losing Zoey would feel loud.

Like a door slamming. Like shouting. Like some dramatic, irreversible moment where she’d look at me and say something final, something sharp enough to cut the cord between us forever.

But this—this is quieter.

It’s waking up in my room with a headache that feels permanent, staring at the ceiling fan as it spins uselessly above me, and realizing there’s no message on my phone. No missed call. No angry text. No check-in that pretends to be casual but is really concern in disguise.

Nothing.

That’s how I know it’s real.

I sit up slowly, the room tilting. There’s an empty bottle on the floor near my bed. Another on the desk. I don’t remember finishing either of them, which doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

What bothers me is the absence.

Zoey used to fill space without trying. She used to exist in my life like gravity—constant, steady, unavoidable. Even when we fought, even when I shut down, she was there. Waiting. Hoping. Pulling.

I mistook that for permanence.

I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. The mirror doesn’t lie. Dark circles. Stubble. Eyes that look older than they should. I turn the tap on and splash water on my face, gripping the sink like it might anchor me.

“You really did it this time,” I mutter to my reflection.

The guy staring back doesn’t argue.

Campus feels hostile now. Not because people whisper—most of them don’t care enough—but because everything reminds me of her. The bench where we argued once. The stairs where she sat waiting for me when I was late. The library entrance where she used to meet me with coffee and fake irritation.

I pass by the quad and see Amber laughing with her group. Zoey isn’t there today, but it still stings. Because even without her physical presence, I can see her life moving forward without me.

And I’m standing still.

Scott spots me near the vending machines and grins like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Rough morning?” he asks.

I ignore him.

He steps closer anyway. “Saw Zoey yesterday. She looks good. Healthy.”

My jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Just saying,” he shrugs. “Funny how people grow when they stop carrying dead weight.”

I turn on him so fast it surprises even me. “Say her name again and I swear—”

He laughs, low and ugly. “See? Still reactive. Still stuck.”

He leans closer. “She didn’t leave you, Chase. You stayed right where you were while she walked past.”

The words hit harder than any punch could.

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

Scott walks off, satisfied, and for once I don’t chase after him. I don’t fight. I don’t drink immediately to drown it out.

I just… stand there.

Because the truth he threw at me hurts precisely because it’s accurate.

Zoey didn’t abandon me.

She outgrew the version of me that refused to move.

I think back to every moment she asked me to try. To study. To talk. To imagine a future that didn’t end in a bottle or a bad memory. I remember how I brushed it off. How I joked. How I told her she was overthinking, that things were fine, that this was just how I was.

I wore stagnation like armor.

And she kept walking.

Ellen texts me again later that afternoon.

Ellen: Can we talk?

I stare at the screen for a long time before replying.

Me: There’s nothing left to say.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Ellen: I know you still love her.

That’s what finally does it.

I throw my phone across the bed and let out a laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob.

“I never stopped,” I say to the empty room. “I just didn’t change.”

I don’t go to class that day. Instead, I sit on the steps outside my building, watching people pass. Couples. Friends. Groups laughing over nothing important.

Life moving.

I think about Eli. About how much potential he had, how much life he wanted. How angry he’d be if he could see me now—stuck, bitter, waiting for the world to stop so I wouldn’t have to catch up.

“You’d hate me,” I whisper.

The thought hurts more than Scott ever could.

That night, I don’t drink.

It’s not some triumphant decision. It’s not strength. It’s exhaustion. I’m too tired to numb myself properly.

Instead, I sit at my desk and open my laptop. My grades are a mess. Warnings stacked on warnings. Missed deadlines highlighted in red.

I close the screen again.

I’m not ready yet.

But for the first time, I admit something I’ve been running from:

I didn’t lose Zoey because she stopped loving me.

I lost her because love wasn’t enough when I refused to follow her forward.

She grew.

I stalled.

And now the distance between us feels unbridgeable—not because she shut the door, but because I never stepped through when it was open.

I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling again.

This time, the silence isn’t empty.

It’s accusatory.

And somewhere deep down, beneath the guilt and jealousy and regret, something uncomfortable stirs.

Not hope.

But awareness.

And I know that awareness is going to hurt far longer than the hangovers ever did.