POV: Chase
I tell myself I’m fine.
I tell myself that the ache in my chest is just a hangover, that the buzzing in my hands will stop once I get another drink, that the noise in my head will quiet down if I keep moving. I tell myself a lot of things. None of them stick.
Scott sits two rows behind me in philosophy, tapping his pen like he’s counting my breaths. He doesn’t look at me anymore. He doesn’t have to. He knows I feel him. He knows the sound gets under my skin, crawls up my spine, sets my teeth on edge.
“You gonna write anything?” Ellen whispers beside me.
I flinch. “What?”
“The notes,” she says, nudging my notebook. “You’ve been staring at the page.”
I glance down. It’s blank.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “In a second.”
She watches me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she looks away. That’s the worst part. Not the guilt—though that’s heavy enough to crush me—but the way she’s always there. Always close. Always waiting for something I don’t know how to give.
Scott laughs at something the guy next to him says. It’s loud. Deliberate.
I grip my pen harder.
“Did you sleep?” Ellen asks.
I don’t answer.
The professor clears his throat. “Mr. Donovan, do you have an opinion on the reading?”
Every head turns.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Scott’s smile is thin and sharp, like a blade.
“I—” I swallow. “No.”
The professor nods, disappointed but unsurprised. “Perhaps next time.”
Next time. Right.
Class ends and I bolt before anyone can say my name. Ellen follows me into the hallway, breathless.
“Chase, wait.”
I stop because if I don’t, she’ll keep chasing me, and that feels crueler than standing still.
“What?” I snap.
Her eyes widen. “I just wanted to—are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” I gesture vaguely at myself.
She hesitates. “You’ve been distant.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what?” she asks softly.
I laugh, sharp and ugly. “With surviving.”
She flinches. “You don’t have to push me away.”
I look at her then—really look—and all I feel is pressure. Obligation. Guilt layered on guilt.
“I didn’t ask you to stay,” I say.
Her face crumples. “I know.”
That’s worse.
I walk away before I say something I can’t take back.
The bar near campus smells like spilled beer and old wood. It’s barely afternoon, but no one cares. The bartender doesn’t ask questions anymore. He just slides the glass toward me like we’ve agreed on this routine.
I down it too fast. Order another.
Scott’s voice echoes in my head, even though he’s not here. She looks better without you. He didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t need to. He just leaned in earlier, close enough for me to smell his cheap cologne, and murmured, “Funny how people glow up when they’re not waiting for you to implode.”
I slam my glass down harder than necessary.
“Easy,” the bartender says.
“Another,” I reply.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again.
Ellen.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and take another drink.
Hours blur together. Laughter that isn’t mine. Music that rattles my skull. At some point, I stumble outside for air and nearly collide with a group walking past.
Zoey’s laugh hits me like a punch.
I freeze.
She’s across the street, walking with Amber’s crowd. Daniel is there, hands in his pockets, leaning toward her as he talks. She’s smiling—really smiling. Not the tight, careful version she used to give me when she was bracing for my moods.
She looks… alive.
My stomach twists.
“Of course,” I mutter.
Scott’s words replay themselves, vicious and smug. She looks better without you.
Daniel says something and Zoey nudges him with her shoulder. Casual. Comfortable.
I hate him instantly.
Not because he’s done anything wrong. Because he hasn’t. Because he’s steady and present and everything I haven’t been.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, I look.
Ellen: Where are you? I’m worried.
I lock the screen without replying.
Zoey glances up, like she feels my stare. For a second, our eyes meet across the street.
She doesn’t stop.
She doesn’t look away in pain or longing or guilt.
She just… keeps walking.
Something in my chest caves in.
I turn back into the bar and order another drink.
“Man,” the bartender says quietly, “you’re gonna regret this.”
“Already do,” I reply.
Night falls fast. By the time I stagger back toward campus, my head is spinning and my hands are shaking. Ellen’s sitting on the steps outside my building, knees pulled to her chest.
“There you are,” she says, standing quickly. “I’ve been calling you.”
I sigh. “Ellen, please.”
She steps closer. “I was scared.”
“For me?” I scoff. “Or for yourself?”
She looks hurt. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this,” I snap, waving between us. “You following me around like I’m something you can fix.”
“I’m not trying to fix you,” she says. “I just—care.”
I laugh bitterly. “That’s the problem.”
Her voice trembles. “Do you regret it?”
The word hangs between us.
“Yes.
No.
I don’t know.
“I regret everything,” I say finally.
She flinches like I slapped her.
I walk past her and unlock my door, my hands fumbling with the keys. She doesn’t follow this time.
Inside, I collapse onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. My room smells like stale alcohol and despair. I don’t bother changing. I don’t bother turning off the light.
Zoey’s face keeps flashing behind my eyes. The way she laughed. The way she didn’t wait.
I think about what Scott said. About how he always knows exactly where to cut.
I think about Eli, too. About promises I never kept. About how everything I touch seems to rot eventually.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, it’s a photo someone posted online. Zoey, Amber, Daniel, all smiling. Captioned with something stupid and harmless.
I drop the phone like it burns.
“I still love you,” I whisper to the empty room. “I just don’t know how to be someone worth loving.”
The bottle on my desk catches the light.
I reach for it.
Because sinking feels easier than climbing.
And because watching Zoey move on without me hurts more than anything I know how to survive.