Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 64

I wake up already tired.

Not the kind of tired that comes from staying up too late or forgetting to drink water, but the deep, bone-heavy exhaustion that settles in when every thought feels like a decision with consequences. My chest aches before I even sit up, as if my body knows what my mind is trying to avoid.

Chase. College. My future.

They circle each other endlessly, like magnets that refuse to settle into place.

I drag myself through the morning routine on autopilot. Shower. Clothes. Mirror. I pause longer than usual in front of my reflection, tugging at the hem of my sweater, wondering if I look like someone who’s falling apart. I don’t see drama or devastation. I see control. Too much of it.

On campus, everything feels sharp. The air. The sounds. Even people’s voices seem to hit me harder than usual. I take notes in class, but the words blur together. I underline sentences I don’t remember reading. My phone stays face down on the desk, like if I don’t look at it, it can’t bring me bad news.

After class, Professor Wilson asks me to stay behind.

My stomach tightens instantly.

“Nothing bad,” he says calmly, noticing the way my shoulders tense. “I promise.”

I nod and wait as the room empties. The scrape of chairs, the murmur of students leaving. Then it’s just the two of us, the quiet settling gently instead of pressing down.

“I wanted to let you know,” he says, opening his folder, “that I’ve written you a recommendation letter.”

I blink. “You—what?”

“For the competition committee,” he clarifies. “And for your academic file. Given the… recent noise.”

My pulse stutters.

“I didn’t ask for that,” I say quickly.

“I know,” he replies. “You shouldn’t have to.”

He slides a copy across the desk—not for me to read in full, just to know it exists. My name looks strange printed at the top, formal and undeniable.

“You’ve earned it,” he continues. “Your work speaks for itself. But sometimes institutions need a reminder of that.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

“You look like you’ve been carrying a lot,” he says gently.

The concern in his voice makes something in my chest twist painfully.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

He doesn’t challenge me. He never does.

“I won’t keep you,” he says instead. “Just know that your place here is not conditional on someone else’s choices.”

The words hit harder than anything he could’ve said.

I nod, unable to speak for a moment. When I finally manage to thank him again and leave the classroom, my legs feel shaky, like I’ve just stepped off something high.

Relief washes through me first. Then gratitude. Then something more complicated.

I hate myself for the warmth that spreads through my chest at the thought of him believing in me so steadily. For the quiet hope that flickers somewhere I don’t want to look too closely.

I tell myself it’s admiration. Professional respect.

But the truth sits heavier than that.

I think about what it would feel like to exist in a world where support doesn’t come with volatility. Where concern isn’t followed by accusation. Where calm doesn’t feel temporary.

The thought feels dangerous.

I push it away.

After classes, I head to the café near campus to meet my mother. We don’t do this often—our schedules rarely align, and when they do, the emotional cost usually outweighs the benefit. Still, she asked, and some part of me still wants her approval in ways I pretend not to notice.

Melissa is already seated when I arrive, posture immaculate, phone placed precisely beside her coffee cup. She looks up, eyes scanning me immediately.

“You look thin,” she says by way of greeting.

I sigh and sit down. “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you eating properly?” she asks.

“Yes,” I lie.

She hums, unconvinced, then gestures to the chair. “Sit. Tell me about school.”

I tell her the sanitized version. Classes. Clubs. The competition. I don’t mention the administration meetings. I don’t mention Chase. I don’t mention the constant knot in my chest.

She listens, nodding, her expression shifting between pride and critique with alarming fluidity.

“And your professors?” she asks. “Anyone noteworthy?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Professor Wilson has been very supportive.”

The moment his name leaves my mouth, something changes.

It’s subtle. A pause too long. A tightening around her eyes.

“Wilson?” she repeats.

“Yes,” I say. “Why?”

She stirs her coffee slowly, not looking at me. “Nothing. Just… curious.”

I frown. “About what?”

“He’s new, isn’t he?” she asks casually.

“To the department, yes.”

She hums again, the sound sharper this time. “Be careful with male mentors, Zoey.”

I stiffen. “He’s not—”

“I know,” she cuts in. “I’m just saying. Boundaries matter.”

The familiar defensiveness rises immediately. “He hasn’t crossed any boundaries.”

“I didn’t say he did,” she replies. “I said be careful.”

Something about her tone irritates me. Not concern—something closer to tension.

“You don’t even know him,” I say.

“And I don’t need to,” she responds. “I know patterns.”

I bite back a retort. “You see patterns everywhere.”

“Because they exist,” she snaps lightly.

I take a breath. “You’re being paranoid.”

Her jaw tightens. For a moment, I think she’s going to push it further, but then she exhales and waves it off.

“Fine,” she says. “It’s your life.”

The dismissal stings more than the warning.

We finish the conversation awkwardly, circling safe topics until it’s time to leave. As we part, she grips my arm a little too tightly.

“Don’t let distractions ruin what you’ve worked for,” she says quietly.

I nod, though I’m not sure who she’s talking about.

On the walk back, my thoughts spiral again.

Chase’s messages remain unread. Professor Wilson’s letter sits like a secret in my bag, both reassuring and unsettling. My mother’s reaction replays in my mind, her tension too specific to ignore entirely.

But I brush it off.

She’s always been like this. Suspicious. Controlling. Seeing threats where there are none.

Right?