Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 82

I tell myself this is what stability looks like now.

Quiet texts. Careful plans. Soft hellos instead of desperate collisions. Chase and I don’t announce anything. We don’t post photos or walk hand-in-hand through campus like a declaration. We orbit each other gently, like two people afraid a sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile agreement we’ve built.

We start seeing each other again without naming it.

Coffee after classes. Short walks at dusk. Sitting side by side on his bed, fully clothed, knees barely touching, like we’re relearning the shape of each other.

It feels safe.

That’s what I keep clinging to.

“You don’t have to come over if you’re tired,” I tell him one evening when he hesitates on the phone.

“I want to,” he replies. “I just… give me ten minutes.”

“Okay,” I say quickly. “No rush.”

I hang up and immediately hate how relieved I sound.

I straighten my room like it’s an apology. I change my sweater twice. I check my reflection in the mirror and adjust my hair, then scold myself for caring this much.

You’re not performing, I tell myself. You’re rebuilding.

When he arrives, he looks exhausted. His hoodie hangs loose on him, eyes shadowed, mouth set in a line that never quite relaxes anymore.

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Hey,” he replies, stepping inside.

We hug—careful, brief. I miss the way his arms used to wrap around me without hesitation, but I don’t say it.

We sit on the edge of my bed. I talk about classes. About deadlines. About how I’m behind but catching up. He listens, nodding, asking the right questions at the right moments.

“You’re doing a lot,” he says.

“I have to,” I reply. “I can’t fall behind right now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Makes sense.”

There’s a pause.

“You okay?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

I force a smile. “Yeah.”

The silence that follows is gentle but hollow, like an echo of something that used to be louder. I fill it automatically, telling him about a reading assignment, about how annoying group projects are, about how the campus café raised their prices again.

He smiles faintly. Sometimes he laughs.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

When he leaves later that night, I sit on my bed staring at the door long after it closes.

This is enough, I tell myself. This has to be enough.

Because everything else feels like it’s slipping.

College is pressing in on me from all sides—emails, deadlines, expectations stacked so high I can barely see over them. Every professor wants more. Every assignment feels heavier than the last. I wake up already tired.

Chase feels like the one thing that hasn’t changed.

So I cling.

We meet again a few days later, walking slowly across campus after my last class. The sun is low, washing the buildings in gold. For a moment, everything feels almost peaceful.

“I missed this,” I say quietly.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Walking like this,” I clarify. “Not fighting. Not breaking.”

He nods. “Me too.”

I glance at him. “You’re quiet.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just… in my head.”

“That’s okay,” I reply too quickly. “We don’t have to talk all the time.”

He gives me a look. “You don’t have to make it easier for me.”

I stop walking.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You keep… minimizing yourself. Like you’re afraid to take up space.”

My chest tightens. “I’m just trying not to push.”

“Or pull,” he adds.

The words sting more than I expect.

“I’m trying to keep things stable,” I say, my voice defensive.

“I know,” he replies. “I just don’t want you to disappear again.”

The irony almost makes me laugh.

“I won’t,” I say. “I promise.”

The promise feels fragile even as it leaves my mouth.

That night, I lie awake replaying his words. Don’t disappear. As if that hasn’t been my entire coping mechanism my whole life.

I start rearranging my schedule around him without noticing. I move study sessions to later so I can see him. I skip a club meeting because he texts last-minute, asking if I want to hang out.

“Of course,” I reply. “I can come.”

I don’t ask why he didn’t plan ahead.

When he cancels once, twice, I tell myself he’s tired. That he’s dealing with things I don’t fully understand yet.

I tell myself patience is love.

One afternoon, I sit in the library staring at my notes, my phone faceup beside me. I keep checking it even though there are no notifications.

Ellen sits across from me, quiet as usual, highlighting something in her book.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she says without looking up.

“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.

She glances at me over the edge of her glasses. “That wasn’t an answer.”

I sigh. “I just have a lot going on.”

“Chase?” she asks carefully.

I stiffen. “Why would you assume that?”

She shrugs. “Because you light up when he texts. And deflate when he doesn’t.”

I look away. “We’re… trying again.”

“Oh,” she says.

The word hangs there, heavier than it should.

“It’s complicated,” I add quickly. “We’re taking it slow.”

“Is it making you feel better?” she asks.

I open my mouth—then close it.

“I think so,” I say finally.

She watches me for a moment. “Okay.”

She doesn’t push. That almost makes it worse.

That evening, Chase and I sit in his car outside my dorm, engine off, music low. The windows fog slightly from our breath.

“I feel like I’m always apologizing,” I say suddenly.

He frowns. “For what?”

“For needing things,” I admit. “For wanting reassurance. For asking questions.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says.

“I know,” I reply. “But I keep doing it anyway.”

He exhales. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be smaller for me.”

“I’m not,” I say quickly.

But the lie tastes bitter.

When he kisses me, it’s slow and careful. I melt into it, grateful for the familiarity, for the way my body still knows his.

Afterward, I rest my head against his shoulder.

“This feels like home,” I murmur.

He stiffens almost imperceptibly.

“Does it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Doesn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Sometimes,” he says finally.

The word sometimes echoes in my chest.

I ignore it.

I ignore the way he checks his phone more often. The way his laughter doesn’t reach his eyes. The way he feels present but not here.

I ignore the warning signs because I need something solid.

I need something that doesn’t involve my mother or Wilson or academic probation or shame.

Chase is familiar. Chase is history. Chase is proof that I wasn’t wrong to believe in something once.

So I hold on.

Even when my chest tightens with unease.

Even when my intuition whispers that safety built on denial isn’t safety at all.

I cling to the idea that love can still be home—

even if it’s starting to feel like I’m the only one keeping the lights on.