Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 70

There’s a moment—right before a truth settles—when everything goes very quiet.

Not peaceful. Not calm. Just still, like the world has paused to see what I’ll do with it.

That’s how it feels as I sit alone in the lecture hall after everyone has left, my bag at my feet, the lights half-dimmed for evening cleaning. The hum of the projector fan is the only sound, low and steady. My thoughts echo louder than it ever could.

Love cannot survive if only one person is growing.

The sentence repeats itself in my head, each time a little clearer, a little heavier. I didn’t arrive at it dramatically. There was no lightning bolt or cinematic realization. It came quietly, like a conclusion I’d been circling for months and finally ran out of ways to avoid.

Love needs movement. Mutual direction. A shared willingness to step forward even when the ground feels unstable.

And Chase… isn’t stepping forward.

The thought terrifies me—not because it feels wrong, but because it feels right.

I stare at my notes spread across the desk, words underlined and annotated with care I wish I could give my own heart. I’ve been staying late all week, volunteering for extra tasks, helping organize materials, doing anything that keeps me from going back to my room too early. Silence feels easier in public places.

I gather my things slowly, bracing myself to leave, when Professor Wilson’s voice breaks the stillness.

“Zoey?”

I look up too quickly. “Yes—sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

He stands near the front, jacket draped over one arm, a folder tucked under the other. He looks tired but composed, like someone who knows how to carry weight without letting it spill everywhere.

“Take your time,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s okay,” I reply, forcing a small smile. “I was just finishing up.”

He nods, glancing at the scattered papers. “You’ve been staying late.”

“Just trying to keep up,” I say.

“With what?” he asks gently.

The question is simple. The answer is not.

“Everything,” I say before I can stop myself.

He studies me for a moment, not

intrusively—attentively. “Would you like to walk while you talk? The building’s about to close.”

I hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”

We walk side by side down the hallway, our footsteps echoing softly. The air smells faintly of cleaning solution. Outside, the evening has settled in, cool and quiet.

“I got the recommendation letter,” I say suddenly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “I meant every word.”

“I know,” I say. And I do. That’s part of the problem.

We step outside, the campus lights glowing softly against the darkening sky. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“Can I ask you something?” I say finally.

He stops walking and turns to face me fully. “You can ask. I may not answer everything.”

That makes me smile despite myself. “Fair.”

I take a breath, my hands twisting together. “What do you do when someone you love… pulls you toward a life that makes you miserable?”

The words hang in the air between us, vulnerable and exposed.

He doesn’t react immediately. He doesn’t rush to respond. He considers.

“That’s a heavy question,” he says.

“I know,” I reply. “You don’t have to answer if it’s inappropriate.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not inappropriate. It’s human.”

Relief loosens something in my chest.

“I’m not asking for personal details,” I add quickly. “Just… advice. In general.”

He nods. “Then I’ll answer in general.”

We resume walking slowly, the path ahead lit by lampposts spaced just far enough apart to leave pockets of shadow.

“In my experience,” he says, “love doesn’t ask you to abandon yourself.”

I swallow.

“It challenges you,” he continues. “It stretches you. But it doesn’t require you to live smaller, quieter, or afraid.”

I stare straight ahead, my throat tight.

“And when it does?” I ask.

“Then something is out of balance,” he replies. “Either the relationship needs to change, or you do.”

The implication is gentle but firm.

“I feel selfish even thinking about choosing my future,” I admit. “Like I’m betraying someone by not staying.”

“Staying isn’t always loyalty,” he says. “Sometimes it’s fear dressed up as devotion.”

The words hit deep, resonating painfully with thoughts I’ve been trying not to name.

“What if leaving destroys them?” I ask quietly.

He stops again, turning toward me. “You are not responsible for another person’s unwillingness to grow.”

My chest tightens, tears pricking my eyes.

“And,” he adds, “you are allowed to choose a future that doesn’t hurt.”

I let out a shaky breath. “That sounds so simple.”

“It isn’t,” he agrees. “But it is necessary.”

I nod, wiping at my eyes quickly, embarrassed by the emotion rising so easily.

He gives me space, not commenting, not pushing. Just standing there, steady.

“I don’t know what comes next,” I say.

“You don’t have to,” he replies. “You just have to decide not to betray yourself while you figure it out.”

The phrase settles into me like a stone dropping into water—sending ripples I know I’ll feel for a long time.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He inclines his head. “Take care of yourself, Zoey.”

“I will,” I say. And for the first time, I believe I might.

We part ways at the path intersection, and I walk back toward my dorm alone, my steps slow but deliberate. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t check it yet. I know who it could be. I know what it might say.

For once, I don’t feel the urge to brace.