Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 50

The auditorium smells like polish and old carpet, the kind of place that tries to feel important by remembering itself too loudly. I arrive early because that’s what I do now. Early feels safer. Early lets me sit with my nerves before anyone can see them shaking.

My name is printed on the program in neat black letters.

Zoey — Academic Excellence Award.

I trace the words with my finger, half-expecting them to smudge or disappear. They don’t. They stay exactly where they are, solid and undeniable. I should feel proud. I do feel proud, somewhere beneath the tension humming through my chest.

I pull out my phone.

No messages from Chase.

I tell myself it’s fine. He knows. I told him days ago. I reminded him yesterday. I even reminded him this morning, careful not to sound needy.

Today at four. Auditorium B.

He reacted with a heart emoji.

That has to mean something, right?

Ellen slides into the seat beside me, hair tucked behind one ear, eyes bright. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

She grins. “You earned this. Whatever happens next.”

I nod, grateful for the way she says it—like this moment belongs to me, regardless of who shows up to witness it.

The ceremony begins with speeches that stretch too long, words about excellence and perseverance floating over the audience like well-rehearsed promises. I clap when I’m supposed to. I smile when others do. My eyes keep drifting to the aisle, waiting.

Chase doesn’t appear.

By the time my name is called, I stop looking.

“Zoey.”

Applause fills the room, warm and steady. I stand on legs that feel surprisingly strong and walk toward the stage. The lights are bright, blinding for a second. I focus on the presenter’s smile, the smooth weight of the plaque as it’s placed in my hands.

“Well done,” she says quietly.

“Thank you,” I reply, my voice steady.

I turn to face the audience, the applause swelling again. In that moment, something strange happens.

I don’t look for him.

I look for myself.

And there I am—standing under the lights, breathing, holding proof of my own work. The pride blooms sharp and real, cutting through the haze of disappointment I expected to feel.

I step off the stage and return to my seat. Ellen squeezes my hand.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.

“Thank you.”

The ceremony ends soon after. People mill about, congratulating one another, taking photos. A professor I barely know stops me to say kind things. Another mentions the competition team, asks how preparations are going.

I answer politely. I smile. I thank everyone.

My phone stays silent.

Eventually, the room empties. Chairs scrape. Voices fade. I find myself standing alone near the exit, plaque tucked under my arm, the weight of it grounding and heavy.

I check my phone one last time.

Nothing.

The realization settles quietly, without drama.

He’s not coming.

I walk home alone.

The late afternoon air is cool, the sky streaked with soft pink and gold like it’s trying to make up for something. I take the longer route, the one that passes the library and the quad, letting my footsteps slow. There’s no rush. No one waiting.

My reflection flashes briefly in the glass of a building—me, holding an award, walking alone. The image should look triumphant.

It looks lonely instead.

When I reach my room, I set the plaque carefully on my desk, aligning it with my notebooks. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at it like it might speak if I give it enough time.

I imagine what it would have been like if Chase had been there. His crooked smile. His arm around my shoulders. The way he used to look at me like my success was something to protect, not compete with.

The version of him I miss feels almost fictional now.

My phone buzzes.

Chase: Sorry. Something came up.

I stare at the message, my chest tightening.

I got the award, I type back.

A pause.

I know. I’m proud of you, he replies.

The words feel thin, stretched over distance and absence.

Where are you? I ask.

Out, he writes.

The simplicity of it hurts more than an excuse would have.

I don’t respond.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, my thoughts drifting unwillingly. I think about the first time I felt proud of myself as a kid, how quickly that feeling was usually followed by fear—fear of losing it, fear of being seen, fear of punishment for wanting more.

Tonight feels similar.

I won something. And instead of joy, I feel the quiet ache of absence.

Ellen knocks lightly on my door a while later.

“Hey,” she says. “Just checking on you.”

“I’m okay,” I lie.

She steps inside anyway, eyes flicking to the plaque. “That’s yours.”

“Yeah.”

She smiles. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

She studies my face. “He didn’t come.”

I shake my head.

“I’m sorry,” she says, meaning it.

“I keep thinking I’ll get used to this,” I admit. “That my wins will feel normal even if I’m alone.”

“And do they?”

I consider the question. “They feel… quieter.”

She nods. “Sometimes that’s grief.”

“For what?”

“For the version of the future you imagined,” she says gently.

After she leaves, I sit back down at my desk and open my notebook. I don’t write notes or plans. I just write the date, then the words:

I did this.

I underline them.

I think about Chase—about the way my achievements seem to widen the space between us instead of bridging it. About how often I brace myself before sharing good news. About how my joy feels like something I have to manage, shrink, soften.

I don’t want that anymore.

The thought scares me with its clarity.

I pick up my phone and scroll through old photos. Us laughing. Us tangled together on my bed. Us before everything got complicated. Before success became a wedge. Before silence became normal.

I don’t hate him.

That’s the hardest part.

But love shouldn’t turn victories into losses.

I set the phone down and look at the plaque again, the engraved letters catching the light.

For the first time, I let myself feel the full weight of the truth pressing quietly against my ribs.

My successes used to feel like doors opening.

Now they feel like rooms I’m standing in alone.

And maybe—just maybe—that loneliness isn’t a punishment.

Maybe it’s information.

I lie back down, exhaustion finally pulling at me, the day settling into my bones. Tomorrow, the world will keep moving. Classes. Meetings. Plans.

Tonight, I let myself grieve the version of joy that used to include him.

And as sleep edges closer, one final thought surfaces, steady and unmistakable:

If I have to choose between dimming myself to keep someone close or standing alone in my own light—I don’t think I can keep choosing the dark.