The email sits in my inbox for a full minute before I open it.
Not because I don’t recognize the sender—I do immediately—but because some part of me already knows that once I read it, I won’t be able to pretend my life is balanced the way I keep telling myself it is. I’m sitting at my desk, legs tucked under the chair, laptop open, phone face down beside it like a promise I don’t trust.
Invitation: Regional Academic Competition Team.
My breath catches.
I click.
The words blur at first, then sharpen all at once. Selected. Recommended. Impressed by my recent work. Opportunity to represent the college. Meetings twice a week. Travel involved. Visibility. Responsibility.
I read it three times to make sure I’m not inventing it.
My chest fills with something bright and terrifying, like standing too close to the edge of a high place. This is real. This is something I earned. Something that doesn’t dissolve if someone looks away.
I press my palm flat against my sternum, grounding myself.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
My first instinct is to tell Chase.
That realization alone makes me hesitate.
I pick up my phone anyway, unlock it, open our chat. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I got invited to join a regional academic competition team.
I stare at the sentence, then add: It’s kind of a big deal.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
The response doesn’t come right away.
I try to focus on my reading, but the words won’t settle. My eyes keep drifting to the corner of the screen, waiting for the typing dots to appear. When they finally do, my pulse spikes.
That’s great, Chase writes.
A pause.
Congrats.
That’s it.
No questions. No excitement. No tell me more.
I stare at the message until the screen dims.
Thanks, I type back.
The conversation ends there.
That night, he comes over later than he said he would. I’m already in pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the bed with my laptop open, rereading the email like it might disappear if I look away too long.
“Hey,” he says, dropping his bag by the door.
“Hey.”
He kisses my cheek absently, then collapses onto the bed beside me, scrolling on his phone.
“So,” I say after a moment. “Did you see my message earlier?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “That competition thing.”
“It’s a team,” I clarify. “And it’s regional. There’s travel involved.”
“Mm.”
“I’d have to go to meetings. A lot of them.”
“Sounds busy.”
“It is,” I agree. “But it’s also… exciting.”
He finally looks up at me. His smile is thin. “Good for you.”
Something in my chest sinks.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?” he asks, irritation creeping into his voice. “You already decided you’re doing it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” he replies. “I can hear it.”
“That’s not fair,” I say quietly. “I wanted to talk about it.”
“We are talking about it.”
“No,” I say. “You’re shutting down.”
He scoffs. “You’re reading into things again.”
I close my laptop slowly. “This matters to me.”
“I know,” he says. “Everything does.”
The edge in his tone makes my stomach twist.
“I just thought you’d be happy for me,” I continue. “Like—actually happy.”
“I am happy,” he insists. “I just don’t get why it’s such a huge thing.”
“Because it opens doors,” I say. “Because it’s recognition. Because it’s… mine.”
He looks away. “Must be nice.”
The comment lands wrong.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means you’re always moving forward,” he replies. “And I’m stuck.”
“I didn’t do this to you,” I say.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“But you’re acting like I’m abandoning you.”
“You kind of are,” he mutters.
I stare at him. “By succeeding?”
“By choosing everything else over us.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“It feels like it,” he snaps. “You’re never here anymore. You’re always busy, always tired, always chasing the next thing.”
“I’m building a life,” I say, my voice trembling. “I thought you wanted that for me.”
“I wanted us,” he says.
“So did I,” I reply. “But I can’t make myself smaller to keep you comfortable.”
Silence fills the room, thick and charged.
He stands abruptly. “I need air.”
“Chase—”
“I said I need air.”
The door closes harder than necessary behind him.
I sit there, frozen, staring at the place where he was standing seconds ago. The room feels suddenly too big, too quiet. My phone buzzes once, then goes still again.
Minutes pass. Then an hour.
He doesn’t come back.
I hate that instinct.
Around midnight, my phone buzzes again.
Why are you trying to leave me behind? Chase texts.
My throat tightens.
I’m not, I type. I just want to grow.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
You’re changing, he writes finally.
I have to, I reply. This is my last year.
No response.
The silence stretches, hollow and aching. I curl onto my side, pulling the blanket around myself, feeling abandoned in a way that has nothing to do with physical distance.
The next morning, I wake with a headache and a heaviness in my chest that won’t lift. I go to class anyway. I smile when spoken to. I nod when praised. I function.
Inside, I feel empty.
Ellen notices immediately.
“You look wrecked,” she says, sliding into the seat beside me.
“I might be,” I admit.
She waits, patient as always.
“I got invited to a regional competition team,” I say.
Her eyes light up. “That’s huge.”
I swallow. “He wasn’t happy.”
Her smile fades. “I’m sorry.”
“I thought it would feel different,” I confess. “Like I’d be proud and excited. Instead, I feel… alone.”
She considers me for a moment. “Sometimes success shows you who can walk with you—and who can’t.”
The words sit heavy in my chest.
That night, alone in my room, I open the email again. I read it slowly this time, letting myself feel the weight of it. The possibility. The risk.
I don’t know what this will cost me yet.
But as I stare at the screen, one truth settles in quietly, unmistakably clear.
No matter how lonely this feels—I don’t regret saying yes.
And the fact that someone I love makes me feel guilty for that terrifies me more than any competition ever could.