Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 72

The academic hall smells like polished wood and expensive coffee.

Everything about the event feels curated—soft lighting, carefully spaced chairs, name tags printed in elegant serif fonts. It’s the kind of place that whispers potential without ever raising its voice. I straighten my posture instinctively as I walk beside my mother, Melissa’s heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

She looks immaculate, as always. Tailored coat. Perfect hair. Lipstick that never smudges.

I feel like I’m borrowing her confidence just by proximity.

“Try not to slouch,” she murmurs without looking at me.

I roll my shoulders back automatically. “I’m fine.”

“This matters,” she says. “People remember impressions.”

That familiar pressure settles into my chest, but it doesn’t flatten me the way it used to. I’ve spent too long fighting for my place to crumble now.

The event is a regional academic networking evening—professors, sponsors, competition coordinators, students with futures that look tidy on paper. I recognize a few faces from campus. Some nod at me, some smile. One professor congratulates me quietly on my recent award.

Pride flares warm and real.

Melissa notices immediately.

“Good,” she says, lips curving just slightly. “As they should.”

For once, her approval doesn’t feel like oxygen. It feels… optional.

We take our seats near the front. As the keynote speaker begins, I scan the room out of habit—faces, expressions, energy. My phone vibrates lightly in my bag. I ignore it.

Then I notice my mother’s phone.

She has it tilted slightly toward her lap, her thumb moving quickly across the screen. She isn’t doom-scrolling or checking work emails. She’s smiling.

Actually smiling.

Not the polite, public expression she wears like armor—but something softer. Warmer. Almost… girlish.

It startles me.

I glance again, just to be sure I’m not imagining it. Another message comes in. Her eyes soften further, her shoulders relaxing in a way I’ve never seen outside of private moments from my childhood.

Whoever she’s texting, she likes them.

The realization sends a strange jolt through me.

During a pause between speeches, I lean slightly toward her. “Busy?”

She locks her phone immediately, expression snapping back into composed neutrality. “Just work.”

That’s a lie.

I don’t call it out. I just tilt my head. “You don’t smile at work texts.”

Her jaw tightens. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” I ask lightly. “You seem… happy.”

She gives me a sharp look. “Focus on the event.”

I do, but the image sticks with me—my mother, texting someone warmly in the middle of an academic function like she forgot herself for a moment.

It’s unsettling. And oddly… human.

As the night continues, I make polite conversation with a few faculty members and students. Melissa stays close, occasionally placing a guiding hand at the small of my back when she introduces me. Normally that would make me tense. Tonight, it just feels like background noise.

At one point, while sipping sparkling water, I test the thought aloud.

“You know,” I say casually, “it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you dated again.”

Her glass pauses halfway to her lips.

“What?” she asks coolly

“I’m just saying,” I continue, keeping my tone neutral. “You don’t have to be alone forever.”

Her eyes harden. “That’s not appropriate.”

“Why not?” I ask. “You always tell me not to settle for loneliness.”

“That’s different,” she snaps. “I’m not discussing my personal life with my daughter.”

I blink. “I wasn’t prying.”

“You were insinuating,” she says. “And you should be careful with that.”

Something sharp rises in me. “Careful of what? The idea that you might want companionship?”

She leans closer, her voice low and cutting. “You have enough trouble managing your own relationships. Focus on that.”

The jab lands, but it doesn’t knock the wind out of me the way it once would have.

“I am,” I say calmly.

She scoffs. “Are you? Last I checked, you were entangled with a boy who can’t get his life together.”

I inhale slowly. “We’re not talking about Chase tonight.”

“You’re avoiding the subject,” she says.

“I’m setting a boundary,” I reply.

She stares at me like she doesn’t recognize the language.

We don’t speak much after that. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of applause and handshakes. When it’s finally over, I step outside into the cool night air feeling strangely light.

My phone is still silent.

No texts.

No calls.

From Chase.

I should feel anxious.

I don’t.

The absence feels deliberate on both sides. A mutual ceasefire. Or maybe something closer to an ending neither of us has formally named yet.

On the drive back to campus, Melissa keeps her eyes on the road, her phone face-down in the cup holder. It buzzes once. She doesn’t check it, but her mouth tightens slightly, like she’s restraining a reflex.

I watch her from the passenger seat, my thoughts drifting.

Chase isn’t texting.

I’m not texting him either.

And for the first time in months, that silence doesn’t feel like abandonment.

It feels like space.

When she drops me off, she gives me a curt nod. “You did well tonight.”

“Thanks,” I say.

She hesitates, then adds, “Don’t let distractions derail you. You remember, right? This is what I always tell you.”

I nod. “I won’t.”

Back in my dorm room, I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of my bed, exhaling deeply. My body hums with leftover energy—not anxiety, not adrenaline. Something quieter. Something steady.

I open my laptop, intending to review notes. Instead, my mind wanders. I think about calm.

About the way Professor Wilson’s voice never rises. About how he listens without scanning for threat. About how attraction to him feels less like hunger and more like relief.

The thought makes my chest tighten with guilt—and then loosen again.

I don’t indulge fantasies. Not fully.

But I allow myself to imagine what it would feel like to be with someone who isn’t constantly at war with themselves. Someone who doesn’t ask me to pause my life to stay aligned with theirs.

Someone stable.