The first time Chase cancels, I tell myself it’s nothing.
He texts twenty minutes before we’re supposed to meet, the message short and careless in a way that feels intentional.
Running late. Going out with the guys. Rain check?
I stare at the screen while my tea goes cold on the desk. I had already changed twice, settled on something comfortable but nice, something that said I tried, but not too hard. I type a reply, erase it, type another.
Okay. Have fun.
He reacts with a thumbs-up.
That night, I sit on my bed with my notes spread out in front of me and find that I can’t focus. My brain keeps circling the same thought: He didn’t even ask if I minded.
The second time, it stings more.
We’re supposed to study together. His idea, even. He shows up late, smelling faintly of alcohol, eyes glassy but alert.
“Did you drink?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He shrugs, dropping his backpack onto the floor. “Just a bit. Helps me relax.”
“You said you wanted to study.”
“I do,” he insists, flopping onto the bed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
The third time, he doesn’t show up at all.
I wait. I text. I call.
When he finally answers, his voice is loud, music thumping in the background.
“Zoey, hey,” he says. “Can I call you back?”
“We were supposed to—”
“I know, I know,” he interrupts. “I’ll make it up to you.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
That’s when the knot in my stomach starts to feel permanent.
The bottles come later.
I don’t go looking for them. That’s the worst part. I’m not snooping, not suspicious, not trying to catch him doing anything wrong. I’m just helping him look for a charger in his backpack because he left it at my place again.
My fingers brush against glass.
I freeze.
There are three empty bottles tucked into the side pocket. Small. Clear. The kind you don’t notice unless you’re looking.
For a moment, I just stare.
Then I close the bag like it burned me.
When Chase comes out of the bathroom, towel around his neck, hair damp, I’m still sitting on the bed.
“Did you find it?” he asks.
“Why are there bottles in your backpack?” I say.
He stops short. “What?”
“The empty bottles,” I repeat. My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Too calm.
He looks away. Just for a second. Long enough.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just… from the other night.”
“You carry them around?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Why?”
He sits down heavily, rubbing his face. “It helps me sleep, okay?”
My chest tightens. “Alcohol doesn’t help you sleep.”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“I’m not lecturing,” I say quickly. “I’m worried.”
“You worry too much.”
The familiar phrase lands like a stamp. Case closed.
“I just—” I stop myself. “How often?”
He exhales, irritated. “Can we not do this?”
“Do what?”
“Turn it into a thing.”
There it is again.
“It is a thing,” I say quietly.
He looks at me, eyes hard. “I said it helps me sleep. End of story.”
I should push. I know that. I should ask more questions, demand honesty, refuse to let it go. But something in me falters. I see how tense he is, how defensive. I remember his hospital room. The weight of his past pressing down on him.
So I nod.
“Okay,” I say.
Relief flashes across his face, quick and telling.
That night, I lie awake long after he falls asleep, listening to his breathing, counting the seconds between inhales. My mind won’t slow down. I keep seeing the bottles in my head, lined up like proof of something I’m not ready to name.
The next week blurs together in a haze of almost-dates and apologies.
Something came up. Didn’t sleep well. Next time, I promise.
I start adjusting automatically, filling my schedule so I don’t notice the gaps. Extra study sessions. Longer library hours.
One evening, Chase finally shows up on time. He seems jittery, restless, pacing my room while I sit on the bed.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. “Why?”
“You’re… wired.”
He laughs. “You analyzing me now?”
“No,” I say. “I just care.”
Later, when he leaves, I notice the smell of alcohol lingering in the room like a ghost.
I wash my sheets that night.
As the weeks pass, I start dreading the sound of his phone buzzing. Not because I don’t want to hear from him—but because I don’t know which version of him I’ll get. The apologetic one. The defensive one. The distant one.
Sometimes, I catch myself scanning his face for signs. Counting drinks in his hand. Measuring his mood like it’s my responsibility.
That realization scares me.
One night, I dream he disappears completely. I wake up gasping, heart racing, the room dark and unfamiliar. I reach for my phone and almost text him, almost ask if he’s okay.
I don’t.
Instead, I sit there in the dark, hands trembling, and admit something to myself I’ve been avoiding.
Believing him doesn’t make me feel safe.
It just makes me feel complicit.
And that thought lingers long after the sun comes up, heavy and unignorable, like a warning I don’t yet know how to heed.