Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 93

There’s a specific kind of loneliness that only exists when you’re surrounded by people.

I feel it the moment I step onto campus.

The noise is the same as always—voices overlapping, laughter bursting out of clusters, the distant slam of lockers, the low hum of traffic beyond the gates. Nothing about the world looks broken.

Only me.

I walk past the café where Ellen and I used to sit, always at the same small table by the window. She liked that seat because no one could sit behind her. I liked it because it felt neutral, safe, temporary.

She’s there now.

Not alone.

She’s sitting with a girl from her program, laughing softly, shoulders relaxed. She looks lighter. Freer.

The sight hits me like a bruise I didn’t know I still had.

I don’t stop. I don’t slow down. I keep walking like my chest isn’t tightening with every step.

You’re fine, I tell myself. You’re just dramatic.

The words sound like my mother’s voice.

I shove my hands into my coat pockets and head toward my first class, eyes down, breathing shallow. I take the long way around the quad, avoiding the bench where Chase and I used to sit between lectures. Avoiding the science building where he always waited for me, leaning against the wall like he had nowhere else to be.

I see him anyway.

He’s standing near the vending machines with Scott and another guy I don’t recognize. Chase looks thinner. Dark circles shadow his eyes. He’s laughing—but it doesn’t reach his face.

Scott notices me first.

His gaze flicks toward me, sharp, curious, almost satisfied.

Chase follows it.

Our eyes meet for half a second.

He freezes.

I don’t.

I look away first and keep walking, my heart slamming so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs.

I hear my name behind me.

“Zoey—”

I don’t turn around.

I push open the door to my building and let it slam shut behind me, my breath coming too fast now. I lean against the wall just inside the entrance, eyes squeezed shut.

“No Chase,” I whisper. “No Ellen. No Mom.”

I say it like a rule. Like if I repeat it enough times, it’ll stick.

In class, I sit alone.

Not because there aren’t empty seats, but because no one comes to sit next to me anymore. The people who used to smile and ask how I was doing now offer polite nods at best.

I open my notebook.

Stare at the page.

The professor starts speaking, but the words blur together, meaningless noise. I write a sentence, then cross it out. Write another. My handwriting looks foreign, jagged.

“Zoey?”

I blink and look up.

“Yes?” My voice sounds too loud in the quiet room.

The professor frowns slightly. “Do you want to answer the question?”

“What question?” I ask, immediately hating myself.

A few students glance back at me.

“We were discussing the ethical implications of the case study,” she says patiently.

My mind is blank.

“I—” My throat tightens. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat it?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Let’s move on.”

The disappointment in her eyes hurts more than if she’d snapped.

After class, I pack my bag slowly, hands shaking just enough to annoy me.

I used to be good at this.

In the hallway, I hear laughter again—Amber’s voice this time, unmistakable. She’s walking with two girls from her club, confident, loud, perfectly at ease.

Our eyes meet briefly.

Her smile falters, just a fraction.

Then she looks away.

That stings more than if she’d smirked.

I skip my next class.

I don’t even feel guilty about it.

Instead, I wander the campus aimlessly, my thoughts spiraling in tight, relentless circles.

You ruin everything.

You push people away.

You don’t deserve stability.

I sit on a bench near the back of campus, the one no one really uses. The wood is cold through my jeans. I pull my coat tighter around myself.

My phone buzzes.

A notification from the academic portal.

Attendance Warning — Multiple Absences Detected

My stomach drops.

“Of course,” I mutter.

I open the message, skimming the formal language that somehow manages to sound both polite and threatening. If my attendance and performance don’t improve, I’ll be required to meet with the board.

Again.

I laugh quietly, the sound hollow.

“Just add it to the list,” I whisper.

I think about texting someone.

Anyone.

Ellen. Chase. Even my mother.

My fingers hover over the screen.

Then I lock my phone and shove it back into my pocket.

No one wants to hear from me unless I’m doing well.

By the time I drag myself to my last class of the day, my head aches and my stomach is a tight knot of hunger and anxiety. I sit in the back and try to focus, but my eyes keep drifting to the door.

Every time it opens, my heart jumps.

Chase never comes in.

Ellen doesn’t either.

Miles passes by the open doorway once, laughing with someone, not even glancing inside.

It’s like I’ve become invisible.

After class, I walk back to my dorm in the fading light, my steps slow, heavy. I pass the library and hesitate, then keep going.

I don’t have the energy to pretend to study.

In my room, I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the bed, staring at the wall. The silence is oppressive.

“I did this,” I whisper. “Didn’t I?”

I think about all the times people have drifted out of my life. All the relationships that ended with me standing alone, wondering what went wrong.

Maybe I’m the common denominator.

Maybe I sabotage everything I touch.

My phone buzzes again.

A message from a group chat I forgot I was still in—something about a party this weekend. I scroll past it without responding.

I don’t belong there anymore.

I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead against them, breathing slowly, trying to keep the tears at bay.

I miss being wanted.

Not admired. Not praised.

Just… wanted.

I miss Ellen’s quiet presence beside me. Miss Chase’s familiar warmth, even when it came with chaos. Miss the illusion that someone would catch me if I fell.

Now there’s no one.

And the scariest part is the voice in my head whispering that this is what I deserve.

I lie down fully clothed and stare at the ceiling as darkness creeps in. My stomach growls faintly, but I ignore it.

Food feels like an afterthought.

So does everything else.

Outside, I hear laughter drifting through the open window. Life moving on without me.

I turn onto my side and close my eyes.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” I whisper into the empty room.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no answer.

Just silence.

And the terrifying realization that I might actually be alone now—not because I chose it, but because I pushed everyone away without even meaning to.

I don’t fall asleep for a long time.

And when I finally do, it’s with the heavy, sinking fear that maybe I really am the problem.