Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 87

Chase doesn’t give me time to disappear.

I don’t even make it back to my dorm before my phone starts vibrating like it’s panicking.

Chase: Please talk to me.

Chase: I know you’re angry but you deserve to hear it from me.

Chase: I fucked up. I know I did.

I stare at the screen while my heart pounds so hard it hurts. My hands feel numb, like they don’t belong to me anymore.

I don’t respond.

I keep walking.

He calls.

I let it ring.

Then again.

And again.

By the time I reach the quiet path behind the arts building, my chest feels tight and raw, like I’ve been crying for hours even though I haven’t shed a tear since Ellen.

I stop.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because some part of me needs to see him say it out loud. Needs to hear the truth without screenshots or intermediaries. Needs the wound to be clean, even if it’s deeper.

I answer.

“Where are you?” he asks immediately, voice strained and breathless.

“Don’t come near me,” I say.

“I need to see you,” he insists. “Please.”

“I said don’t.”

There’s a pause. I hear him swallow.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Then I’ll stay where I am. Just—talk to me.”

I close my eyes. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“I know,” he says. “I just—Zoey, I’m begging you.”

I exhale shakily. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say the truth,” I snap. “Out loud. Without excuses. Without blaming your trauma or your depression or Scott or me.”

Silence stretches on the line.

“I cheated on you,” he says finally.

The words still land like a punch to the ribs, even though I already know.

“How many times?” I ask.

“More than once,” he admits. “I don’t know the exact number anymore.”

My throat tightens. “With Ellen.”

“Yes.”

“And others?” I press.

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Yes,” he whispers.

Something cold settles in my stomach.

“So when you told me you loved me,” I say slowly, “you were lying.”

“No,” he says immediately. “That’s the fucked-up part. I wasn’t.”

I laugh, sharp and hollow. “That doesn’t make this better.”

“I know,” he says. “I know it doesn’t.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why her? Why anyone?”

He exhales shakily. “Because I didn’t want to be alone. Because you were pulling away and I panicked. Because Ellen was there and she needed me and I needed to feel wanted by someone who wasn’t disappointed in me.”

My hands curl into fists. “I was disappointed because you kept hurting yourself.”

“I know,” he says. “And I hated myself for disappointing you. I hated myself so much that I kept doing things that proved you were right.”

“That’s not love,” I say.

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

“So why didn’t you let me go?” I demand. “Why keep me while doing this behind my back?”

“Because I couldn’t stand the idea of losing you,” he says. “And I couldn’t stand the idea of being enough for you.”

The honesty is brutal.

“I loved you,” he continues. “I still love you. But I didn’t know how to be the person you deserved.”

I feel tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. “Then why tell Ellen you hated being with her?”

His breath catches. “She told you that?”

“Yes,” I say. “She told me everything.”

“Then you know,” he says. “I hated myself for being with her. Every time. Because she wasn’t you.”

My chest aches violently.

“That’s not a compliment,” I say. “That’s cruelty.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I was selfish. I used both of you.”

I lean against the cold brick wall behind me, my legs shaking.

“Do you love her?” I ask.

The question tastes bitter.

“I don’t think I know what love is anymore,” he says. “I know I’m attached. I know I feel needed. But with you—”

“Stop,” I interrupt. “Don’t romanticize this.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“The truth is,” I say, my voice trembling now, “you destroyed my trust. You humiliated me. You made me doubt myself every single day while you were lying to my face.”

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

“You don’t get to love me and betray me at the same time,” I say. “You don’t get to keep me as your anchor while you burn everything else.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he pleads.

I laugh softly, tears finally spilling. “You already did.”

“Zoey, please,” he says. “I’ll do anything. I’ll stop drinking. I’ll cut her off. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll change.”

The words feel rehearsed. Too late.

“You didn’t choose me when it mattered,” I say. “You chose your comfort. Over and over again.”

“I was broken,” he says.

“So was I,” I snap. “And I didn’t cheat.”

Silence.

“I still love you,” he says quietly.

The admission lands heavy and useless between us.

“I believe you,” I say after a moment. “And that’s what makes this worse.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I believe you love me,” I repeat. “But love without respect is just possession.”

His breathing turns ragged. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m doing it,” I say. “I’m choosing myself this time without illusions.”

“You’re just running,” he accuses weakly.

“No,” I reply. “I’m walking away from someone who keeps dragging me down with them.”

“I can’t survive without you,” he says.

The words hit something deep and dangerous in me.

“You can,” I say firmly. “And even if you couldn’t, that still wouldn’t be my responsibility.”

He lets out a broken sound. “I hate myself.”

“I know,” I say softly. “But hating yourself doesn’t give you permission to destroy others.”

Another long silence.

“I don’t want to be with Ellen,” he says. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

“That’s not my problem anymore,” I reply.

“You’re really leaving,” he says.

“Yes.”

“For good?”

I close my eyes. “Yes.”

The word feels final and terrifying and right all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry too,” I say. “For believing I could save you.”

I end the call before he can say anything else.

My hands shake violently as I lower the phone. My chest feels cracked open, grief pouring out of it in waves that leave me dizzy.

I slide down the wall and sit on the ground, hugging my knees to my chest as tears finally come in earnest.

I loved him.

I loved him so much it almost destroyed me.

But loving someone doesn’t mean accepting betrayal.

And choosing myself doesn’t mean I won.

It just means I survived.

I stay there until the shaking stops, until my breathing evens out, until the ache dulls into something bearable.

When I finally stand, my legs feel weak—but my spine is straight.

I walk away from the arts building without looking back.

This time, I don’t cling.

This time, I let go.