By the third week of Chase not showing up to class, people stop asking where he is.
That’s the part that scares me most.
At first, it’s small things. An empty seat beside me that stays empty through the entire lecture. His name missing when attendance is called. Professors pausing for half a second, glancing up, then continuing like the absence is already expected.
“He hasn’t been around much,” Ellen murmurs one morning as we sit down.
“I know,” I say.
I know because I count. I know because every skipped class feels like a quiet alarm going off inside my chest. I know because I check my phone between lectures, waiting for a text that explains everything.
Overslept.
Didn’t feel good.
Next class.
The excuses thin out until there are none.
When I finally see him again, it’s outside the convenience store near campus, late afternoon, the sun too bright for the heaviness in my head. He’s leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between his fingers, eyes dull.
“Why aren’t you in class?” I ask, skipping any pretense.
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“You’ve missed three weeks.”
“So?”
“So you’re going to fail.”
He laughs, short and humorless. “Already am.”
The casualness of it makes my stomach drop.
“Chase,” I say, lowering my voice, “this matters.”
“To you,” he snaps.
I take a breath. “To you too. Even if you pretend it doesn’t.”
“Don’t do that,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Don’t talk down to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he insists. “You always are lately.”
“That’s not fair.”
He scoffs. “You walk around like you’ve got everything figured out. Like you’re better than me.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that.”
“But you act like it,” he says. “All your grades. Your competitions. Your clubs. You make me feel like shit.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
“That’s not my intention,” I say quietly.
“Intentions don’t matter,” he replies. “Impact does. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?”
I flinch.
That night, I go to his place anyway. I bring my laptop. My notes. Printed syllabi. I tell myself I’m being supportive, not controlling. Helpful, not desperate.
He eyes the stack of papers when I spread them out on his desk.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“Your classes,” I say. “I talked to someone. You can still catch up in two of them if you start now.”
He stares at me like I’ve insulted him.
“Are you serious?” he says.
“Yes.”
“You think you can just swoop in and fix this?”
“I’m not fixing it,” I say. “I’m helping.”
“By acting superior?” he snaps.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It’s exactly what you’re doing,” he says, voice rising. “You think because you get A’s, you can tell me how to live.”
“That’s not true.”
“You don’t miss anything,” he continues. “You’re perfect. Organized. Motivated. And I’m just supposed to keep up?”
“I never asked you to keep up,” I say, my voice shaking. “I just want you to show up.”
“For what?” he asks. “To sit there feeling stupid while you explain things I already failed at?”
“You’re not stupid.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says sharply. “I know what I am.”
Something in my chest cracks.
“I’m worried about you,” I say. “You’re drinking more. You’re skipping everything. You’re angry all the time.”
He laughs, bitter. “Now you’re diagnosing me?”
“I found bottles in your bag,” I say. “You smell like alcohol half the time.”
He goes very still.
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is when it’s hurting you,” I say. “And us.”
“There is no us in this,” he snaps. “This is my life.”
“I’m your girlfriend.”
“So?” he shoots back. “That doesn’t make you my therapist. Or my mother.”
The words slice clean.
“I’m not trying to control you,” I say. “I’m trying to understand.”
“You don’t need to understand,” he replies. “You just need to stop looking down on me.”
“I don’t look down on you.”
“You do,” he insists. “Every time you open your mouth about school. About responsibility. About the future.”
I stare at him, tears burning my eyes. “I talk about the future because I want one. With you.”
He looks away.
“That’s the problem,” he mutters.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
“I can’t help you if you won’t let me,” I say finally.
“I don’t want your help,” he replies. “I want you to stop making me feel like I’m failing just by existing.”
I pack my things slowly, hands shaking.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “I’m scared something’s wrong and you won’t talk to me.”
He doesn’t answer.
When I leave, the air outside feels too cold, too sharp. I walk back to campus alone, my thoughts spiraling.
The next week is worse.
He misses everything. Entire days disappear where I don’t hear from him at all. When I do, his texts are short, irritable, detached.
I start feeling like I’m dating a shadow.
In class, I can’t concentrate. Professor Wilson notices, his gaze lingering on me with quiet concern, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. I don’t want to be seen like this. Split in half. Exhausted.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my phone silent beside me. I think about how much energy I’ve spent trying to pull him back toward the surface. How tired I am. How heavy my chest feels all the time.
I love him.
At least, I think I do.
But love isn’t supposed to feel like walking on broken glass, waiting for the next cut.
As sleep finally drags me under, one thought refuses to let go.
If caring this much is destroying me—
how much longer can I survive pretending it’s normal?