Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 91

My mother doesn’t ask how I’m doing.

She never does.

She asks how I’m performing.

“How are your grades?” Melissa says the moment I step into her kitchen, eyes flicking to my face like she’s scanning for damage. “You look tired.”

“I am tired,” I reply, dropping my bag by the door.

She hums, already turning back to the counter. “Well, you chose this program. You knew it would be demanding.”

I swallow. The kitchen smells like lemon cleaner and something baked hours ago, untouched. Everything is neat. Controlled. Exactly the way she likes it.

“I didn’t come here to talk about college,” I say carefully.

She glances at me over her shoulder. “Then why did you come?”

The question lands heavier than it should.

“I needed—” I stop myself, exhale. “I needed support.”

She sets the knife down with deliberate care. “Support for what, Zoey?”

“For the fact that I’m struggling,” I say. “For the fact that my life kind of imploded.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “You mean because you couldn’t manage your emotions properly.”

My chest tightens. “That’s not—”

“You walked away from a relationship,” she continues smoothly. “Then you fixated on a man who was never appropriate for you. And now you’re surprised things are unstable?”

The words feel like slaps, one after another.

“I didn’t fixate,” I snap. “And you don’t get to talk about appropriate when you were secretly dating him.”

Her eyes flash. “Lower your voice.”

“No,” I say. “I’ve been lowering my voice my whole life.”

She folds her arms. “This attitude is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re spiraling.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You don’t get to diagnose me.”

“I’m your mother,” she says. “It’s my job to tell you when you’re making mistakes.”

“No,” I reply, stepping closer. “It’s your job to care when I’m hurting.”

She scoffs softly. “You’re not hurting. You’re being dramatic.”

Something in me cracks.

“I almost failed an exam,” I say. “I haven’t eaten properly in days. I cry myself to sleep most nights. And all you can say is that I’m dramatic?”

She studies me with a cool, assessing gaze. “Then maybe you should focus less on feelings and more on discipline.”

The word echoes in my head.

Discipline.

The same word she’s used since I was a child—whenever I cried, whenever I struggled, whenever I didn’t meet her expectations.

“I needed comfort,” I whisper.

“And I needed results,” she replies. “That’s how the world works.”

My hands tremble. “You think love is conditional.”

She stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“You only care about me when I’m succeeding,” I say, voice rising. “When I’m winning awards or getting praise or making you look good.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she snaps.

“Is it?” I challenge. “When was the last time you hugged me without asking about my grades?”

She opens her mouth—then closes it.

The silence is deafening.

“I broke,” I say quietly. “And you’re angry at me for it.”

“I’m angry that you’re wasting your potential,” she says. “You’re better than this.”

“No,” I reply. “I’m human.”

She shakes her head, frustrated. “You always do this. You fall apart and expect everyone to cushion the fall.”

“Everyone?” I laugh weakly. “It’s just you. I came to you.”

“And I’m telling you the truth,” she insists. “Self-pity won’t save you.”

“I’m not asking to be saved,” I say. “I’m asking to be loved.”

Her jaw tightens. “Love doesn’t mean enabling weakness.”

“There it is,” I whisper.

She frowns. “There’s what?”

“You don’t know how to love without conditions,” I say. “Without rules. Without expectations attached.”

“That’s not true,” she says sharply.

“Then prove it,” I challenge. “Say you care about me even if I fail.”

She hesitates.

Just for a second.

But that second is everything.

“I care about you because I want what’s best for you,” she says finally. “And failure isn’t best.”

Tears burn my eyes. “You don’t get it.”

“I get it perfectly,” she replies. “You’re letting a series of bad choices derail your future.”

“My future isn’t just a résumé,” I snap. “It’s my life.”

“And your life will be very difficult if you keep this up,” she warns.

I nod slowly, something settling cold and heavy in my chest.

“You know what hurts the most?” I ask quietly.

She doesn’t respond.

“I keep thinking if I explain it better, you’ll finally see me,” I say. “But you never do. You only see what I produce.”

She exhales sharply. “I’m done having this conversation.”

“So am I,” I say.

I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder.

“Don’t walk away when we’re not finished,” she says.

“We’re finished,” I reply. “We’ve been finished for a long time. I just didn’t know it yet.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re being ungrateful.”

“No,” I say. “I’m being honest.”

I pause at the door, hand on the handle.

“I needed my mother,” I say without turning around. “And you showed me exactly who you are.”

“Zoey—”

I open the door.

“Don’t,” I say. “I can’t take another condition.”

I step outside into the cold air, my breath shaking. The door closes behind me with a soft click that feels louder than a slam.

I stand there for a moment, heart pounding, tears streaming freely now.

I wasn’t asking for perfection.

I was asking for safety.

And she couldn’t give me that—because she doesn’t know how.

As I walk away from the house, my chest aches with grief that feels older than today. Older than this fight.

The grief of realizing that love, for her, has always been something I had to earn.

And I’m done trying.