Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 66

The silence stretches for four days.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the kind that lets you breathe. This one is sharp-edged and deliberate, full of unsent messages and unread intentions. Chase doesn’t text. I don’t text. We orbit the same campus like strangers who know too much about each other to pretend nothing’s wrong.

At first, I tell myself it’s healthy.

Space. Cooling off. Not saying something we’ll regret.

By the third day, it feels less like space and more like abandonment wearing a reasonable excuse.

I see him across the quad once, talking to someone I don’t recognize. He laughs—actually laughs—and something in my chest tightens painfully. Not because I’m jealous. Because I didn’t know he still sounded like that.

I turn away before he sees me.

By the fourth evening, I’m exhausted from carrying the quiet alone. I’m in my room, trying to study, my notes spread out in front of me like evidence of a life I’m barely holding together. My phone lights up suddenly, the vibration making me flinch.

Chase: We need to talk.

My stomach drops.

Now? I type.

There’s a pause. Then:

Chase: I’m outside.

My heart starts pounding immediately, loud and insistent. I consider saying no. I consider asking for more time. But some instinct—fear, guilt, habit—pushes me to my feet.

When I open the door, he’s standing there with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense, eyes dark. He looks thinner. Edgier. Like he hasn’t slept properly in days.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

I hesitate for half a second. “Yeah.”

He steps inside, glancing around my room like it’s unfamiliar territory. Maybe it is. Maybe I’ve changed more than I realized.

We stand there awkwardly for a moment, neither of us knowing where to start. The air feels heavy, charged with everything we didn’t say over the last few days.

“So,” he says finally. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

I cross my arms. “You haven’t exactly reached out.”

“That’s because every time I think about talking to you,” he snaps, “I get this feeling like I already know what you’re going to say.”

“And what’s that?” I ask quietly.

“That you’re done,” he replies. “That you’ve moved on.”

My chest tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “You’ve been distant for weeks, Zoey. You barely look at me anymore.”

I inhale slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve been overwhelmed.”

“By what?” he demands. “Your classes? Your clubs? Your professors?”

The emphasis makes my stomach sink.

“By everything,” I say. “Including us.”

He laughs bitterly. “There it is.”

“There what?”

“You’re already halfway out,” he says. “I can feel it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m cheating on you,” I snap.

He freezes.

“I didn’t say cheating,” he says slowly.

But the accusation is already in the room, ugly and undeniable.

“You’re thinking it,” I say.

His jaw tightens. “You’re emotionally cheating.”

The words hit like a slap.

“What?” I whisper.

“You heard me,” he says. “You’re not sleeping with anyone else, but you’re not here either. You’re somewhere else. With someone else.”

“That’s not true,” I say immediately. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I didn’t say you did,” he retorts. “I said you’re doing it in your head.”

My heart is racing now. “You don’t get to decide what I think.”

“No,” he snaps. “But I get to notice when my girlfriend looks at her phone like it’s a lifeline and not once at me.”

“That’s not—”

“And I get to notice,” he continues, voice rising, “when you light up talking about your future, but go quiet when I walk into the room.”

The words sting because they’re not entirely wrong.

“You’re projecting,” I say, even as doubt curls in my chest.

“Am I?” he challenges. “Because it sure feels like you’re already gone.”

I shake my head. “I’m still here.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” he demands.

Silence crashes down between us.

I search for the right words—something honest but not cruel, something that won’t fracture us further. But every sentence I try to form feels like a lie or a weapon.

“I’m confused,” I admit finally. “That’s all.”

“About what?” he presses.

“About us,” I say. “About everything.”

He scoffs. “Funny how confusion always shows up when someone better comes along.”

Anger flares hot and sharp. “That’s not fair.”

“Then explain it,” he snaps. “Explain why you don’t touch me the same way. Why our conversations feel like chores. Why I feel like I’m competing with something I can’t see.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not trying to replace you.”

“But you are,” he says flatly.

The certainty in his voice terrifies me.

“I haven’t crossed any lines,” I insist. “I haven’t kissed anyone. I haven’t told anyone I love them. I haven’t—”

“But you’ve given them something,” he interrupts. “Something that used to be mine.”

I stare at him. “You don’t own my emotional world.”

“I’m your boyfriend,” he says. “That’s supposed to mean something.”

“It does,” I reply. “But it doesn’t mean I stop being a person.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You’re gaslighting me.”

My breath catches. “No. I’m being honest.”

“Then be honest,” he snaps, turning to face me. “Are you attracted to someone else?”

The room feels too small. Too exposed.

I open my mouth to deny it—and stop.

The hesitation is enough.

His face falls, something breaking behind his eyes.

“So I was right,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t say that,” I whisper.

“You didn’t have to.”

Guilt floods me instantly, thick and suffocating. “I hate myself for it,” I say. “I haven’t acted on anything. I don’t even want to.”

“But you feel it,” he says.

“Yes,” I admit, voice shaking. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”

He laughs softly, hollow. “Unbelievable.”

“I didn’t choose it,” I say desperately. “Feelings don’t work like that.”

“No,” he replies. “But staying does.”

The implication slices deep.

“I stayed,” I say. “I’m still staying.”

“Physically,” he says. “But emotionally? You left a while ago.”

Tears burn in my eyes. “That’s not true.”

“Then look at me,” he says sharply.

I do.

He looks hurt. Angry. Afraid. And suddenly, overwhelmingly small. Like a boy standing in the shadow of something he can’t outrun.

“I’m scared,” he says quietly. “And instead of holding my hand, you’re reaching for something else.”

“I’m scared too,” I reply. “But I can’t keep shrinking to make you feel okay.”

The words hang in the air, final and devastating.

His face hardens. “So that’s it.”

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s not that simple.”

“It always is,” he mutters. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

He turns toward the door.

“Chase,” I say, panic rising. “Please don’t walk out like this.”

He pauses, hand on the handle. “Then tell me I’m wrong.”

I freeze.

Tell him he’s wrong.

Tell him I haven’t been thinking about calm. About safety. About what it would feel like not to be constantly braced for impact. Tell him I haven’t been emotionally stepping outside this relationship just to breathe.

I can’t.

“I can’t lie,” I whisper.

He nods slowly, like he expected that answer all along.

“Good,” he says. “At least one of us is being honest now.”

He leaves without another word.