Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 100

I don’t mean to see them.

That’s the lie I tell myself as I step out of the humanities building and slow automatically, my body reacting before my brain can intervene. The courtyard is busy—too busy for anything private—but there they are anyway, standing near the low stone wall by the bike racks.

Ellen and Chase.

Not touching.

Not smiling.

Just close enough that it feels intimate anyway.

Ellen is talking fast, her hands moving as she gestures, eyes bright with something desperate and pleading. Chase stands with his shoulders hunched, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder like he’s trying to escape without actually walking away.

I stop.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. Every instinct I’ve learned the hard way tells me to keep moving, to protect myself from whatever this is going to do to me.

But I don’t.

I watch.

I watch Ellen reach out and grab his sleeve.

“I’m not asking for forever,” she says. I can’t hear the words clearly, but her mouth shapes them carefully, like she’s afraid of breaking something fragile. “I just want you to talk to me.”

Chase pulls his arm back gently but firmly.

“I can’t,” he says. His voice carries just enough. “I told you that.”

“Told me what?” Ellen asks, her voice cracking. “That you’re still in love with her?”

My stomach twists.

Chase doesn’t answer right away. He looks tired. Hollow. Like someone who hasn’t slept properly in weeks.

“I told you I can’t do this,” he repeats.

“That’s not an answer,” Ellen says. “You don’t get to disappear again.”

He exhales sharply. “I’m not disappearing. I’m setting a boundary.”

She laughs weakly. “You never had boundaries before.”

Something sharp flashes across his face. “Exactly.”

She goes still.

I feel like I’m intruding on something private, even though they’re standing in the middle of campus. Even though this entire mess has already been made public by everyone except me.

Ellen’s shoulders slump.

“So that’s it?” she asks quietly. “You’re just… done with me?”

Chase shakes his head. “I’m done hurting people.”

She scoffs. “You think this is protecting anyone?”

“I’m trying,” he says. “That’s more than I did before.”

She bites her lip, eyes glossy. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”

“I can’t,” he says again. “Please don’t make this harder.”

She stares at him for a long moment, then nods, like she’s absorbing a blow.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I get it.”

She doesn’t.

I can tell she doesn’t.

She steps back slowly, her gaze flicking past him for just a second—

—and landing on me.

Our eyes meet.

The moment stretches, thin and electric.

Her face drains of color.

For a heartbeat, none of us move.

Then she looks away, turns, and walks off quickly, her shoulders hunched, her head down.

Chase turns too.

He sees me.

His expression changes instantly—shock, guilt, something like relief tangled with dread.

“Zoey,” he says.

I don’t answer.

I don’t glare. I don’t cry. I don’t storm toward him or turn and run.

I just stand there, my heart pounding, my hands cold.

“I wasn’t—” He stops himself. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

I nod slowly. “I know.”

The words surprise both of us.

“You do?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Because if you were, you wouldn’t look like that.”

He flinches. “I didn’t want you to see this.”

“I didn’t want to see it either,” I reply. “But I did.”

Silence settles between us, heavy and awkward.

“I told her it’s over,” he says quietly. “Completely.”

I study his face, looking for something—certainty, remorse, honesty. I don’t know what I find.

“Good,” I say finally.

He blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I repeat.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

“I don’t want to talk about you right now,” I say. “I’m late.”

It’s a lie. I have nowhere to be.

But I don’t owe him my time anymore.

I turn to leave.

“Zoey,” he calls after me. “Wait.”

I stop but don’t turn around.

“I’m trying,” he says. “I know I don’t look like it, but I am.”

I glance back at him over my shoulder. “Trying doesn’t erase damage.”

“I know,” he says. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

I nod once. “Then keep it.”

I walk away before he can say anything else.

My chest feels tight, but not the way I expect. There’s no immediate wave of grief, no urge to collapse.

Just… distance.

Later that evening, my phone buzzes.

Amber: You busy?

I stare at the screen for a moment.

Me: Why?

Amber: I’m dragging you out.

I sigh softly, my thumb hovering.

Me: Out where?

Amber: Food. People. Noise. Distraction.

Me: I don’t think—

Amber: That wasn’t a question.

I stare at the message, then glance around my room—the untouched desk, the stack of unread notes, the silence pressing in.

Maybe distraction isn’t the worst thing.

Me: Fine. Where?

Amber: Meet me by the fountain in ten.

When I get there, Amber is already waiting with two girls I vaguely recognize and a guy leaning against the railing, tall and relaxed, dark hair falling into his eyes.

“Zoey,” Amber says, smiling. “This is everyone.”

Everyone looks at me.

“Hi,” one of the girls says warmly. “I’m Lina.”

“Jess,” says the other.

The guy straightens and offers a hand. “Daniel.”

I hesitate, then shake it. “Zoey.”

“I know,” he says with an easy grin. “Amber talks about you.”

I shoot her a look. “She does?”

Amber smirks. “Only good things.”

I don’t believe her.

We walk together toward the café off campus, conversation flowing around me. I mostly listen, chiming in when spoken to, my nerves slowly settling as no one asks invasive questions or expects me to perform.

At the café, we crowd around a table, chairs scraping, drinks ordered.

“So,” Jess says, leaning back. “You’re the chess girl.”

I grimace. “Unfortunately.”

Daniel laughs. “You play?”

“Used to,” I reply.

“Play with us sometime,” he says. “We’re terrible.”

Amber snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

I sip my drink, warmth spreading through me, not just from the caffeine.

For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like the center of a story I’m losing control of.

I’m just… here.

“Are you okay?” Amber asks quietly when the others drift into their own conversations.

I consider lying.

Then I shake my head. “No.”

She nods. “Good. Honesty looks better on you than pretending.”

I huff a weak laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

She smiles faintly. “Yeah. I know.”

I glance around the table—Lina animatedly telling a story, Jess scrolling through photos, Daniel watching them with amused interest.

I think about Ellen walking away earlier. About Chase’s hollow eyes. About the quiet certainty settling in my chest that some doors really are closed.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I say to Amber.

“Anytime,” she replies. “You don’t have to be alone.”

I don’t know what this is yet.

I don’t know if I trust it.

But as laughter bubbles up around me and the night stretches on, I realize something important:

I didn’t break when I saw them.

I didn’t crumble.

And maybe—just maybe—that means I’m stronger than I thought.