Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 94

I don’t mean to overhear her.

I’m just trying to wash my hands.

The bathroom on the second floor is almost empty—quiet in that hollow, echoing way that makes every sound feel amplified. I push the door open, already rehearsing how I’m going to get through the rest of the day without crying in public again.

That’s when I hear it.

A sob.

Sharp. Broken. Not the quiet kind people save for privacy, but the kind that slips out when you’ve been holding everything in too tight for too long.

I freeze.

The sound comes from one of the stalls.

I know that voice.

My chest tightens immediately, my body reacting before my mind catches up. I take a slow step forward, then stop myself.

Ellen.

“Please,” she whispers between breaths. “Please just—just answer me.”

My fingers curl into the fabric of my sleeve.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should leave.

I tell myself that twice, maybe three times, but my feet don’t move. I stand by the sinks, heart pounding, staring at my reflection in the mirror like it might tell me what to do.

Her sniffles echo again, followed by the unmistakable sound of a phone unlocking.

“No,” I whisper under my breath. “Don’t.”

She doesn’t hear me.

“I know I said I’d give you space,” Ellen says softly, voice trembling. “I know you’re hurting. I just—I need you to know I’m still here.”

My stomach twists.

I turn the faucet on, the rush of water loud in the small room, hoping it’ll drown her out.

It doesn’t.

“I love you,” she says, the words cracking apart as soon as they leave her mouth. “I really do. And I don’t care if you’re broken or angry or lost. I’ll stay. I promise.”

My reflection blurs as my eyes fill with tears I didn’t expect.

I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

This is none of my business anymore.

That’s what I tell myself.

“You don’t have to go back to her,” Ellen continues, her voice desperate now. “I’m not asking you to choose. I just—please don’t disappear again.”

There’s a pause.

Then a sharp inhale.

“I know I’m not her,” she whispers. “I know I’ll never be her. But I love you anyway.”

Something cold settles in my chest.

She presses send.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

I turn the faucet off slowly, my hands dripping water onto the floor. My breathing feels shallow, uneven.

I should say something.

I should knock on the stall door and tell her to stop. Tell her she’s humiliating herself. Tell her to have some self-respect.

But I don’t.

Instead, I step back, leaning against the counter, my gaze fixed on the closed stall door.

Ellen lets out a broken sound—half sob, half laugh.

“God, I’m pathetic,” she mutters to herself.

I feel something twist inside me.

Not pity.

Not anger.

Something darker.

Satisfaction.

The realization hits me all at once, sharp and undeniable, and it makes me feel sick.

She’s miserable.

She’s not happy with him.

Neither of them are.

A quiet, traitorous part of me exhales.

Good, that voice whispers.

I hate that voice.

I hate that I recognize it.

I remember all the times Ellen sat across from me at lunch, calm and quiet and safe. All the times I thought she was different. Better.

She was never safe.

She was just waiting.

I hear the stall door creak open slightly, then close again. She’s still inside.

Still crying.

I push myself away from the counter, my legs suddenly unsteady.

I should leave now.

Before she comes out.

Before she sees me.

Before this becomes another confrontation I don’t have the energy to survive.

But I hesitate.

Part of me wants to knock on the door.

Part of me wants to say her name.

Another part—the loudest part—wants to watch her fall apart in the same way I did.

“You don’t get to be the victim,” I whisper to my reflection.

The words surprise me.

I’ve never thought of myself as cruel.

I turn toward the door, then stop when Ellen speaks again, her voice quieter now, resigned.

“He’s not answering,” she says to no one. “Of course he’s not.”

I close my eyes.

Chase.

I picture him somewhere else—slouched on his bed, phone facedown, bottle within reach. I picture him reading that message and feeling exactly what he always feels: guilt, relief, confusion.

I picture him choosing nothing.

The thought should hurt more than it does.

Instead, it feels like confirmation.

She sniffles again. “I’d do anything for you,” she whispers. “Anything.”

I open the bathroom door.

The hinges creak softly.

Ellen doesn’t notice.

I step out into the hallway, letting the door close quietly behind me.

The air outside feels colder, sharper, like it’s punishing me for what I just did—or didn’t do.

I walk down the hall slowly, my footsteps echoing too loudly.

My chest feels tight, but there’s a strange lightness underneath it, like something ugly has finally been named.

She’s not happy.

Neither is he.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, I don’t feel like the only one drowning.

The thought scares me.

What kind of person does that make you? I ask myself.

I don’t have an answer.

Later that day, I sit in class and stare straight ahead, my hands folded neatly on the desk. The professor talks. Slides change. Pens scratch paper.

I hear none of it.

All I can think about is Ellen’s voice. The way it broke when she said his name. The way she begged.

I feel hollow.

But not empty.

There’s a difference.

Empty means there’s nothing left.

Hollow means there’s space—room for something else to take root.

And I don’t know yet if that’s a good thing or a terrible one.

After class, I pass Ellen in the hallway.

She doesn’t look at me.

Her eyes are red, her shoulders tense, her phone clutched tightly in her hand.

For a moment, our paths almost cross.

I slow down.

She doesn’t.

She walks right past me, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

Good.

I don’t think I could handle her looking at me right now.

I duck into the stairwell and lean against the wall, my heart racing for reasons I don’t fully understand.

I’m not proud of what I felt.

But I’m not ashamed either.

That scares me more.

Because somewhere between betrayal and grief, something inside me has hardened.

And I don’t think it’s going to soften anytime soon.

I straighten and push myself away from the wall.

I still have a life to survive.

Even if it’s colder than it used to be.