Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 95

The exam room smells like paper, stale coffee, and panic.

I recognize the feeling immediately—the tightness in my chest, the buzzing under my skin, the way my fingers won’t stop trembling even though I press them flat against the desk. This exam matters. I know it does. I’ve known it for weeks.

I just… didn’t prepare the way I should have.

“Please place your bags under your chairs,” the invigilator says calmly. “Phones off. Screens down.”

I slide my bag to the floor and stare at the blank booklet in front of me like it’s a threat.

You can do this, I tell myself. You’ve done harder things.

But my brain feels foggy, sluggish, like it’s wrapped in cotton. The past few weeks blur together—missed lectures, half-written notes, nights spent staring at the ceiling instead of studying.

The exam starts.

I flip the page.

Question one.

I read it once. Twice.

My stomach drops.

I know this. I should know this. But the answer won’t surface, no matter how hard I dig. Panic flares sharp and immediate.

Breathe.

I skip it and move on.

Question two is worse.

By question three, my leg is bouncing uncontrollably under the desk.

This is bad.

I glance around the room. Pens move steadily. Pages flip. Everyone else looks calm. Focused. Like they belong here.

I don’t.

My throat tightens.

I force myself to write something—anything—on question four, my handwriting shaky, my thoughts scattered. I check the time.

Half the exam gone.

“No,” I whisper under my breath.

I flip back to question one, my pulse pounding in my ears. I write a sentence, then cross it out. Write another. It sounds wrong. Everything sounds wrong.

My vision blurs.

I press my pen down harder than necessary, as if pressure alone can force clarity into my head.

By the time the invigilator calls time, my hands are numb.

“Pens down,” she says gently. “Please bring your papers forward.”

I stare at my booklet for a long moment, my chest aching.

This is the worst exam I’ve written in years.

I walk to the front of the room in a daze and hand it in, avoiding eye contact. My legs feel weak as I make my way out into the hallway.

The moment the door closes behind me, my composure shatters.

I lean against the wall, my breath coming fast and shallow.

“I failed,” I whisper. “I actually failed.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t check it. I don’t want to know who it is. I don’t want to explain. I don’t want sympathy or disappointment or advice.

I just want to disappear.

I wander the campus aimlessly, my mind replaying every mistake, every skipped class, every night I told myself I’d catch up tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came.

I end up outside the building where Professor Wilson’s office is before I even realize where I’m going.

I stop short.

“No,” I mutter. “Don’t.”

I turn to leave—

“Zoey?”

I freeze.

I know that voice. Calm. Measured. Too gentle for the state I’m in.

I turn slowly.

Professor Wilson stands a few feet away, holding a folder under his arm. He looks surprised to see me—but not displeased.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

The concern in his voice snaps something inside me.

“I’m fine,” I say sharply.

He studies me for a moment. “You don’t look fine.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving,” I reply.

He hesitates. “I saw you leaving the exam room.”

My chest tightens. “So?”

“So I wanted to check in,” he says. “You’ve been struggling lately.”

“I told you already,” I snap. “I don’t want check-ins.”

“I’m not here as—” He stops himself, choosing his words carefully. “I’m here because I’m worried about you as a student.”

“There it is,” I say bitterly. “As a student.”

“That’s my role,” he replies calmly.

“And what about everything else?” I challenge. “Do you just compartmentalize people like that? Student here, girlfriend’s daughter there?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “This isn’t about that.”

“It’s always about that,” I fire back. “You don’t get to pretend this is neutral.”

“Zoey,” he says gently, “your performance today—”

“My performance?” I interrupt, incredulous. “You think this is a performance?”

“I think you’re overwhelmed,” he says. “And pushing yourself without support.”

“I didn’t ask for your analysis,” I snap.

He exhales slowly. “I’m offering help.”

“I don’t want it,” I say. “From you.”

The words come out harsher than I intend, but I don’t take them back.

“Your recent grades suggest you’re at risk,” he continues, professional but firm. “If this continues, the board may intervene.”

My stomach twists.

“So this is a warning now?” I ask. “Or a threat?”

“It’s information,” he says. “And a chance to course-correct.”

I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Course-correct? You think I don’t know that?”

“Then let me help you,” he says quietly.

“Stop,” I snap. “Just stop.”

A few students pass by, glancing at us curiously. I lower my voice, my hands clenched at my sides.

“You don’t get to be my savior,” I say. “Not after everything.”

He looks genuinely pained now. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“That doesn’t undo it,” I reply. “Intent doesn’t erase impact. You taught me that, remember?”

He says nothing.

“I nearly failed that exam,” I say, my voice cracking despite myself. “And you know what scares me the most?”

He waits.

“That I didn’t even feel surprised,” I whisper. “Like some part of me expected this.”

He softens. “That doesn’t define you.”

“You don’t know that,” I snap. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“I know you’re capable,” he says firmly. “I know you’re intelligent and resilient and—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt. “Don’t list my traits like they’re a résumé.”

Silence stretches between us.

“I’m trying to hold myself together,” I continue, my voice trembling. “And every time you look at me like that—like you care—it just makes everything worse.”

He takes a step back, giving me space.

“I’ll respect your boundaries,” he says quietly. “But I won’t stop being concerned.”

“Then keep it to yourself,” I reply. “Because right now, your concern feels like pressure.”

He nods slowly. “All right.”

He hesitates, then adds, “If you change your mind—”

“I won’t,” I say immediately.

He studies me for a moment longer, then turns and walks away.

I watch him go, my chest aching in a way I don’t have words for.

The moment he’s gone, my legs give out.

I sink onto a bench outside the building, my head in my hands.

“What are you doing?” I whisper to myself. “What are you doing?”

I failed an exam.

I snapped at the one person offering academic support.

I’m alienating everyone, one by one.

The realization hits me slowly, painfully:

I’m losing myself again.

Not because of love.

Not because of betrayal.

But because I stopped taking care of myself.

I sit there until the cold seeps through my clothes, until the campus quiets and the sky darkens.

I don’t cry.

I just feel tired.

And scared.

Because this time, I can’t blame anyone else.

This time, the collapse is mine.