Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 107

I hear about Chase the way you hear about a storm that already passed through somewhere else.

Not directly. Not from him. From fragments that drift into conversations and stop when I enter the room.

“He didn’t show up again.”

“Someone said he got kicked out of the bar.”

“Scott was laughing about it.”

None of the sentences finish properly. People lower their voices when they notice me. They glance at my face, like they’re checking for damage.

I keep walking.

Amber catches up to me near the science building, boots clicking against the pavement. She doesn’t ask how I am. She just falls into step beside me like it’s natural.

“You okay?” she asks anyway.

I snort. “Define okay.”

She smirks faintly. “You didn’t cry in public today. That’s a win.”

“Low standards,” I say.

“Survival standards,” she corrects.

We walk in silence for a minute. I can feel it coming—the question hovering in the air between us. I brace myself.

“I heard about Chase,” she says finally.

There it is.

I keep my eyes forward. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He’s… not doing great.”

My chest tightens despite myself. It’s automatic, like a reflex I haven’t fully unlearned yet.

“What does that mean?” I ask, already hating that I asked at all.

Amber shrugs. “Drinking. Missing classes. Picking fights. Scott’s being a dick about it.”

I swallow. “Of course he is.”

She glances at me. “You don’t have to care.”

“I know,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I don’t—”

I stop. Breathe.

“I care,” I admit. “I just don’t want to go back.”

Amber nods slowly. “Those aren’t the same thing.”

The words hit harder than I expect.

We sit on the low stone wall near the quad, watching students pass. Laughter. Backpacks. Life moving forward like nothing ever broke.

“I feel guilty,” I say quietly.

“For what?” she asks.

“For not wanting to fix him anymore,” I reply. “For being relieved that I’m not the one holding him together.”

She tilts her head. “Zoey… you were never holding him together.”

I laugh, hollow. “It felt like it.”

“That doesn’t make it true,” she says.

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “Everyone keeps acting like I should be devastated. Like I should be crawling back to him.”

“Are you?” Amber asks.

I think about it. Really think.

The late-night arguments. The constant vigilance. The shrinking. The way my achievements started to feel like threats.

“No,” I say finally. “I’m sad. And angry. And embarrassed. But I don’t want to go back.”

“Good,” she says simply.

I look at her. “Good?”

“Yes,” she says. “Because wanting someone isn’t the same as being good with them.”

A group of students passes by, laughing loudly. Someone mentions Chase’s name in a whisper, followed by a snort.

My stomach twists.

“I hate that people are talking about him,” I say. “Even after everything, I hate it.”

“That means you’re human,” Amber replies. “Not obligated.”

I exhale slowly.

“Do you ever feel like you escaped something by accident?” I ask.

She considers it. “All the time.”

We head toward the library together. Inside, the quiet presses down gently, like a blanket instead of a weight. We take seats near the back, laptops open.

I try to focus on my reading, but my mind keeps drifting. Images flash uninvited—Chase laughing at something stupid, Chase passed out on his bed, Chase watching me walk away without stopping me.

“You’re spiraling,” Amber says without looking up.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” she says calmly. “Your leg’s bouncing and you haven’t read a single line in five minutes.”

I still. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says. “Just… tell me what you’re thinking.”

I hesitate. Then, “What if I abandoned him?”

She looks up then, meeting my eyes. “Did he ask you to stay?”

“Yes,” I say. “But he also asked me to stop growing.”

She closes her laptop. “Then you didn’t abandon him. You refused to disappear.”

The phrasing loosens something in my chest.

Later that afternoon, I run into Jess near the vending machines.

“Hey,” she says, awkward but kind. “Just wanted to say… you’re handling things really well.”

I blink. “Handling what?”

She gestures vaguely. “You know. Everything.”

“Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”

She hesitates. “If you ever need… distraction. We’re going out tonight.”

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

“No pressure,” she says. “Just—yeah.”

As she walks away, I realize something strange.

No one is asking me to fix him.

They’re just… checking on me.

That night, I sit in my room with my notes spread out, the lamp casting a soft circle of light. My phone buzzes once.

Unknown number.

I stare at it, heart racing.

Then it stops.

I don’t check. I don’t chase the silence.

Instead, I text Amber.

Me: Thanks for today.

Amber: Anytime. You didn’t cave. That matters.

I set my phone down and return to my work. It’s slow going, but it’s steady.

As I write, I realize something that feels both cruel and freeing.

I can feel sorry for Chase.

I can even love the memory of him.

But I don’t have to light myself on fire to keep him warm anymore.

The guilt lingers—but it doesn’t control me.