Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 57

My mother’s house smells the same as it always has—cleaning spray, lemon, and something sharp beneath it, like judgment that’s been polished until it shines. The familiarity presses against my ribs the moment I step inside, a tightness I didn’t realize I’d been bracing for until it’s already there.

“Zoey,” Melissa says, her voice bright, her smile precise. She steps forward and kisses my cheek, her hand lingering at my elbow just long enough to assess. “You look… busy.”

I set my bag down carefully. “Hi, Mom.”

She steps back, eyes scanning me from head to toe. Not openly. Never openly. My mother doesn’t stare; she catalogs. I feel the inventory happening anyway—my sweater, my posture, the faint shadows under my eyes.

“You’re thinner,” she says.

It isn’t a question.

I shrug. “College.”

“Mmh,” she hums, unconvinced. “Stress does that. You should be careful not to let it get away from you.”

I bite back the automatic apology. Instead, I say, “I’ve been doing well.”

She brightens instantly. “I heard.” She gestures toward the living room. “Sit. Tell me everything.”

We settle onto opposite ends of the couch. She crosses her legs, perfectly composed, hands folded in her lap. I recognize the posture—listening mode, which looks generous until you realize it’s also evaluative.

“I won an academic award,” I say. “And I’m on a competition team.”

Her eyes light up. “That’s my girl.”

The praise hits hard, sharp and sudden. I soak it in despite myself.

“I knew you’d excel once you focused,” she continues. “You always had the discipline. Unlike some people.”

I know who she means.

“Chase?” she asks lightly, as if it’s a footnote.

“Yes,” I say.

Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. “Is he still… around?”

The way she says it makes him sound like a bad habit.

“He is,” I reply carefully.

She sighs. “Zoey, you’re finally moving in the right direction. I just don’t want distractions pulling you off course.”

“He’s not a distraction,” I say automatically.

She raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t he?”

I shift uncomfortably. “He’s struggling.”

Melissa leans back. “Everyone struggles. That doesn’t mean you attach yourself to them like an anchor.”

The word lands heavily.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I say, my voice tight.

“Yes,” she replies. “And that’s part of what concerns me.”

There it is. The familiar dance. Validation wrapped in critique.

“You’ve accomplished so much,” she continues. “But I worry about how you present yourself. Not just academically—physically.”

My stomach twists.

“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I know.

She gestures vaguely. “Your clothes lately. A bit… shapeless.”

I glance down at my sweater, suddenly hyper-aware of how it drapes. “I like it.”

“Comfort is fine,” she says. “But confidence is visible. People notice when someone stops caring.”

I care, I want to say. I care too much.

“I care,” I say instead.

She studies me. “Do you?”

The question cuts deeper than she probably intends.

“You’re very capable,” she says, softening slightly. “But capability doesn’t excuse neglect. You can’t let yourself go just because you’re busy.”

The words echo painfully.

“I haven’t let myself go,” I say, my throat tight.

She tilts her head. “I didn’t say you had. I’m just reminding you to stay vigilant.”

Vigilant.

I nod, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.

“And your weight,” she adds casually, as if mentioning the weather. “It fluctuates when you’re stressed. You’ve always had that tendency.”

I feel heat rush to my face. “I’m healthy.”

“I’m sure,” she says. “I just want you to be your best.”

The sentence sounds like love. It always does. That’s what makes it hurt.

We eat lunch together, the conversation circling safer topics—classes, schedules, future plans. Every compliment comes paired with an unspoken caveat. Every moment of pride feels conditional.

“You could go far,” she says at one point. “But you need to surround yourself with people who elevate you.”

I think of Ellen. Of chess club. Of Professor Wilson’s calm voice telling me my worth isn’t conditional on exhaustion.

And I think of Chase, unraveling.

“I don’t want to abandon people when they’re struggling,” I say quietly.

Melissa’s gaze sharpens. “That instinct will ruin you if you let it.”

Something in her tone hardens me.

“Or it could make me human,” I reply.

She looks surprised. Then faintly displeased.

“You don’t need to prove your humanity,” she says. “You need to protect your future.”

The rest of the visit passes in a blur of polite conversation and careful restraint. By the time I pack my bag to leave, my chest feels heavy, like I’ve swallowed something dense and unyielding.

At the door, she pauses.

“I am proud of you,” she says, touching my arm. “Truly.”

The words settle warmly for half a second.

“Just don’t sabotage yourself,” she adds.

There it is.

I walk away with both praise and pain lodged inside me, tangled so tightly I can’t separate them.

On the bus ride back to campus, I stare out the window, my reflection faint against the passing scenery. I pinch the fabric of my sweater unconsciously, assessing. Measuring.

I open my notes app and stare at the blank page. I think about my mother’s voice—how easily it slips into my own thoughts, how often I replay her words when I look in the mirror.

Stay vigilant. Don’t let yourself go. Be your best.

I realize something then, quietly and painfully.

A lot of my insecurities aren’t new.

They’re inherited.

That night, standing in front of my mirror, I lift my shirt slightly, examining my stomach with the same critical eye I’ve learned from her. My reflection looks back at me, uncertain and tired.

“I’m doing my best,” I whisper.

The girl in the mirror doesn’t argue.