Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 90

My grades don’t fall all at once.

They slide.

Quietly. Patiently. Like something eroding from the inside while I’m busy convincing myself I still have control.

I sit in the back row of my morning lecture with my notebook open and my pen poised, staring at a blank page like it’s personally offended me. The professor is talking—something about frameworks and comparative analysis—but the words float past me without sticking.

“Zoey?”

I blink hard. “Sorry—what?”

A few heads turn. The professor frowns slightly, not unkind but not pleased either.

“I asked if you’d like to expand on your earlier point,” she says.

Earlier point.

I search my memory frantically. Nothing comes up.

“I—” My voice catches. “I’m sorry. I lost my train of thought.”

She nods slowly. “All right. Let’s move on.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

This never used to happen.

After class, I pack my bag slowly, my hands clumsy, my head buzzing with static. Clara catches up to me in the hallway.

“You okay?” she asks, brow furrowed. “You seemed… gone.”

“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.

She tilts her head. “You’ve missed two deadlines this week.”

My stomach drops. “I did?”

“Yes,” she says gently. “Group project and the short response paper.”

“I’ll email,” I say quickly. “I’ll fix it.”

She studies me for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I said I’m fine,” I snap, sharper than I mean to.

She flinches. “Okay. Sorry.”

Guilt prickles at my skin, but I don’t chase after her.

I don’t have the energy.

In the library later, I stare at my laptop screen, rereading feedback from an essay I turned in late. The comments are polite. Professional.

You’ve clearly understood the material, but the structure feels rushed.

Please reach out if you’re struggling to keep up.

Struggling.

The word feels heavier than it should.

I close the laptop and press my palms into my eyes until spots bloom behind them.

“I can’t afford this,” I whisper.

My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder: Lunch.

I ignore it.

Hunger is easier to manage than the chaos in my head. It’s something I can control.

I tell myself I’ll eat later.

I always do.

By the time evening rolls around, my hands are shaking slightly as I walk back to my dorm. The hallway smells faintly of someone’s microwave dinner, my stomach twisting in response.

I unlock my door and drop my bag on the floor, sinking onto my bed without turning on the light.

I don’t feel like eating.

I don’t feel like doing anything.

My phone lights up with another email.

Subject: Missing Assignment — Reminder

My chest tightens.

I open it.

Another polite message. Another gentle nudge. Another reminder that I’m slipping.

I type a reply, then delete it. Type again. Delete again.

I don’t know what to say without sounding like an excuse.

“I’ll submit it tomorrow,” I whisper to myself.

I won’t.

The next morning, I stand in front of the mirror longer than usual, tugging at my sweater, turning sideways, frowning.

My body feels wrong.

Too soft. Too visible. Too much.

I pinch at my waist reflexively, then drop my hand like I’ve been caught doing something shameful.

“Get a grip,” I mutter.

I skip breakfast.

Again.

In class, my leg bounces uncontrollably beneath the desk. I try to take notes, but my handwriting looks unfamiliar, shaky.

Halfway through the lecture, my vision blurs.

I press my fingers into the desk, grounding myself, breathing slowly.

You’re fine, I tell myself. You’ve done this before.

But that thought doesn’t comfort me the way it used to.

After class, I run into Ellen—by accident, unavoidable, cruel timing.

She’s at the far end of the hallway, laughing softly at something someone says. When she notices me, the laughter dies instantly.

Our eyes meet.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

Then she looks away and turns her body slightly, like she’s shielding herself from me.

The sight punches the air out of my lungs.

I keep walking.

My steps feel heavier than they should, like gravity has doubled just for me.

At the café, I order tea instead of food. The barista gives me a look but doesn’t comment.

I sit alone, staring at my untouched cup, watching people come and go.

A group of girls nearby are talking animatedly about an upcoming event.

“I heard Zoey’s on academic watch,” one of them whispers, not quietly enough.

My stomach clenches.

“That’s ridiculous,” another replies. “She’s always been top of her class.”

“Apparently not anymore,” the first says.

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. Their voices cut off mid-sentence.

I don’t look at them as I leave.

Back in my room, I sit on the floor with my back against the bed, my knees pulled to my chest.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper.

The old habits creep back in quietly, insidiously.

Skipping meals becomes routine instead of exception. My appetite disappears under the weight of anxiety and shame. When I do eat, guilt floods in immediately, sharp and punishing.

I start counting. Not calories exactly—just enough to feel in control again.

My body feels like something I need to discipline.

My phone buzzes with a message from my mother.

Melissa: How’s college?

I stare at it for a long moment.

Me: Busy.

Melissa: Are you keeping up?

My throat tightens.

Me: Yes.

The lie sits heavy in my chest.

That night, I dream about exams I never studied for. About showing up late to classes I forgot I had. About standing in front of a room full of people while they watch me fail.

I wake up sweating, heart racing.

In the morning, I don’t go to my first class.

I sit on my bed, staring at the wall, the thought of walking into that room feeling unbearable.

“I’ll go to the next one,” I tell myself.

I don’t.

By afternoon, my head is pounding and my stomach aches sharply. I sip water and pretend that’s enough.

I check my grades online impulsively.

Two assignments marked missing. One marked late. A participation score that’s dipped lower than I’ve ever seen it.

My vision blurs again.

“This isn’t me,” I whisper.

But the evidence says otherwise.

In the hallway that evening, Clara catches up to me again.

“Zoey,” she says gently. “I’m worried about you.”

“I told you I’m fine,” I reply, exhausted.

She studies my face. “You don’t look fine.”

I cross my arms defensively. “I don’t need another person monitoring me.”

“I’m not monitoring you,” she says softly. “I’m checking in.”

“Well, don’t,” I snap. “I have enough people disappointed in me already.”

Her face falls. “That’s not what this is.”

“I need to go,” I say, brushing past her.

I retreat to my room and lock the door, sliding down against it once I’m alone.

Tears come then—quiet, relentless.

“I can’t afford to fall apart,” I whisper. “I can’t.”

But I am.

Slowly. Silently. In ways that don’t look dramatic from the outside but feel catastrophic from the inside.

My grades are slipping.

My body feels like an enemy again.

My mind is a constant loop of shame and exhaustion.

And for the first time since I started college, I’m scared—not of failing one assignment or one class, but of losing the version of myself I worked so hard to become.

I curl up on my bed, pulling the blanket around me like armor.

Tomorrow, I tell myself again.

Tomorrow I’ll fix it.

But deep down, I know:

This isn’t something I can brute-force my way through.