I wander campus without a destination, letting my feet decide where to go because my head can’t be trusted anymore.
It’s late afternoon, the kind of gray hour where the light feels tired, stretched thin across concrete and glass. Students pass me in clusters, laughing, arguing, complaining about assignments like their worlds are still small enough to fit inside a conversation. I move through them like a ghost, unseen and untouched, my arms wrapped around myself as if I might come apart if I don’t hold on.
I should be in class. I should be studying. I should be doing something productive, something that proves I’m still moving forward.
Instead, I’m just… walking.
Every bench I pass reminds me of Chase. Places we sat together, places we argued, places I waited for him while pretending not to check my phone every thirty seconds. The memories cling to me like damp clothes I can’t peel off.
My phone is quiet.
That’s the worst part.
I sit on the low stone wall near the humanities building, staring at the ground between my feet. A crack runs through the pavement, splitting into smaller lines like a web. I trace it with my eyes, thinking stupidly that it looks like my life right now—fractured, spreading, impossible to follow back to a single point.
“Zoey?”
I look up to see Ellen standing a few feet away, her bag slung over one shoulder, concern etched plainly across her face.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t stick.
She doesn’t return it. “You’ve been missing.”
“I’ve been here,” I reply. “Just… not present.”
She considers that, then sits beside me without asking. We watch people pass for a moment, neither of us speaking.
“You look hollow,” she says finally.
The word lands perfectly, painfully accurate.
“I feel hollow,” I admit.
She nods. “Want to talk about it?”
I stare straight ahead. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start wherever it hurts the most.”
I swallow. “I feel alone,” I say. “Even when I’m with him. Especially then.”
Ellen doesn’t react right away. She waits, giving the words space to breathe.
“He’s not showing up anymore,” I continue. “Not really. And when I try to talk about it, he gets angry. Or distant. Or tells me it’s none of my business.”
“That’s rough,” she says softly.
“I keep telling myself it’s just a phase,” I whisper. “That he’s struggling. That I should be patient.”
“And?”
“And I’m disappearing,” I say. “I feel like I’m shrinking to fit whatever version of him I get that day.”
Ellen turns slightly toward me. “Does he make you feel safe?”
The question catches me off guard.
“I—” I stop. “What do you mean?”
She doesn’t flinch. “I mean emotionally. Do you feel safe being honest with him? Being excited? Being scared?”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
“I feel… familiar,” I say finally.
Ellen nods slowly. “That’s not the same thing.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But it feels close enough sometimes.”
She studies my face. “Let me ask you something else.”
“Okay.”
“Do you feel safer with him,” she asks, “or just familiar?”
The question slices through me, clean and precise.
I look away, blinking rapidly. Images flash through my mind—Chase’s laugh when we first met, the way he held me like I was something precious and fragile, the nights I stayed awake worrying if he was okay, the fights, the bottles, the silence.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think… I think I confuse familiarity with safety.”
Ellen doesn’t say I told you so. She doesn’t soften the truth either.
“That makes sense,” she says. “Familiar pain feels predictable. New safety feels risky.”
I let out a shaky breath. “What if I’m wrong?”
“About what?”
“About everything,” I say. “About him. About myself. About what I deserve.”
She leans back, looking up at the sky. “You’re allowed to question things. That doesn’t make you disloyal.”
“It feels like it does,” I reply. “Like I’m betraying him just by thinking these thoughts.”
“Or,” she says gently, “you’re finally listening to yourself.”
The words sit heavy in my chest.
“I don’t hate him,” I say quickly. “I still care. I still worry. I still—”
“I know,” Ellen interrupts softly. “This isn’t about hate. It’s about harm.”
We sit in silence for a while after that. The campus grows quieter as evening creeps in, the sky darkening slowly, deliberately.
“I used to think being alone was the worst thing,” I say eventually. “Now I think being lonely next to someone is worse.”
Ellen nods. “It is.”
I wrap my arms around my knees. “I keep hoping he’ll wake up one day and meet me where I am.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asks.
The question echoes painfully.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
She turns to me fully now. “Zoey, you’re allowed to want a partner who walks with you. Not someone you have to drag behind you.”
Tears spill over before I can stop them. I wipe them away angrily, embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t,” she says. “This is honest.”
I nod, breathing through the ache in my chest.
When I finally stand, my legs feel unsteady, but something inside me feels clearer—still painful, but sharper, more defined.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Anytime,” Ellen replies. “And… for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re asking for too much.”
I walk back toward my dorm alone, my thoughts heavy but no longer spinning wildly. I unlock my door, step inside, and sit on the bed without turning on the light.
My phone buzzes once.
Chase: You busy?
I stare at the message for a long time.
I think about Ellen’s question. About safety. About familiarity. About how often I feel like I’m holding my breath in this relationship, waiting for the moment it collapses or stabilizes.
Yeah, I type finally. I am.
I set the phone down and lie back, staring at the dark ceiling.
For the first time, the loneliness feels less like a failure and more like a signal.
A warning.
Or maybe an invitation.
I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet.
But I know one thing for certain as the night settles around me, quiet and heavy—
I can’t keep pretending that being familiar is the same as being safe.