POV: Chase
Scott waits for me this time.
I know it the moment I step out of the building and feel that familiar prickle crawl up the back of my neck, the one that tells me I’m being watched. The quad is busy—students scattered on benches, phones out, laughter floating through the air—but my focus narrows instantly. He’s leaning against the low stone wall near the bike rack, arms crossed, posture loose, like he’s got all the time in the world.
Like he planned this.
I consider turning around. For half a second, the idea feels almost reasonable. I could pretend I didn’t see him. I could duck into another building, disappear into the crowd, tell myself avoidance is the same thing as control.
Then he pushes off the wall and walks toward me.
“Chase,” he says, voice casual. “We need to talk.”
I stop. My feet feel rooted to the concrete. “I don’t.”
He smiles, thin and humorless. “You do.”
I glance around, aware of people nearby. “Not here.”
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not going to make a scene. That’s not my style anymore.”
Anymore. The word sticks.
“Five minutes,” he adds. “That’s all.”
I hate that I nod.
We move to the side, just far enough from the main path to feel private without actually being alone. My pulse is loud in my ears, every sense on edge. Scott studies me openly, like he’s cataloging changes.
“You look worse,” he says.
“Fuck off.”
He chuckles softly. “Still charming.”
“What do you want?” I snap.
His expression shifts then, the humor draining away. “I want to understand something.”
I fold my arms, defensive. “You always did like pretending there was logic to things.”
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t make this about attitude. This is about Eli.”
The name hits like a blow to the chest.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“You survived,” Scott continues calmly. “He didn’t.”
My vision blurs around the edges. “I didn’t kill him.”
“You didn’t save him either,” Scott replies.
The words slice clean.
“I tried,” I say through clenched teeth. “You think I didn’t try?”
Scott steps closer, invading my space just enough to make my skin crawl. “You walked away.”
“I was forced out,” I shout. “They transferred me. You know that.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And he stayed.”
I shove him back, not hard enough to start a fight, but enough to make my point. “You don’t get to rewrite what happened.”
His eyes harden. “I get to remember it however I want.”
I laugh, short and broken. “So what, you followed me here to punish me?”
“No,” he replies. “I followed you because I wanted to see if it haunted you too.”
“And?” I demand. “Happy?”
He studies me for a long moment. “Yeah. Actually.”
Something in his voice makes my stomach drop.
“Because if it still eats at you,” he continues, “then maybe I’m not the only one who stayed behind.”
He steps back, satisfied, like he’s said exactly what he came to say.
“I hope you sleep like shit,” he adds quietly. “Just like he did.”
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing back into the crowd like he was never there at all.
I stand there shaking, my hands clenched so tightly my nails bite into my palms. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s vibrating, my thoughts racing too fast to grab onto.
Eli’s face flashes in my mind—grinning, reckless, eyes bright with the kind of hope that gets you killed in places like that. I hear his laugh. His voice.
We’ll get out, he’d said once. You’ll see.
I don’t remember when I started walking.
I just know I end up at the bar again.
The bartender doesn’t ask questions when I order. He just slides the glass toward me, amber liquid sloshing gently. I knock it back too fast, the burn familiar and welcome.
Another.
And another.
The noise in my head dulls, replaced by a heavy, sinking sensation that feels like relief. I drink until Scott’s voice fades. Until Eli’s face blurs. Until the guilt becomes manageable instead of crushing.
I don’t notice how drunk I am until my phone buzzes and the screen swims when I try to focus.
Zoey.
Hey. Are you around?
The name tightens something in my chest.
I don’t respond.
Another drink.
I think about her face at the bar the other night. The way she looked at me like I was someone she didn’t recognize. I think about how easily she forgave me the next day, how quick she was to smooth things over like my behavior was just another obstacle to manage.
The thought makes me sick.
She deserves better, a voice whispers in my head.
I drown it out with another drink.
When I finally stagger home, it’s late. Too late to call. Too late to fix anything. I collapse onto the bed fully clothed, the room spinning slowly around me.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
When it does, it’s violent.
I dream of locked doors and concrete floors. Of Eli calling my name from somewhere I can’t reach. Of Scott standing in the doorway, blocking the exit, smiling.
I wake up sweating, my heart racing, the taste of alcohol sour in my mouth.
Morning light filters through the blinds, harsh and unforgiving. My head throbs. My phone is on the nightstand, face down. I flip it over with trembling fingers.
Several missed messages from Zoey.
My chest tightens.
I sit up slowly, groaning, every part of me aching. Shame settles in heavy and familiar. I know I should text her. Apologize. Explain. Promise to do better.
I type a message, delete it. Type another.
I’m sorry. I had a bad night.
It feels insufficient. It always does.
I send it anyway.
As I wait for a response, I think about Scott’s words. About surviving. About how much easier it would be to stop trying altogether.
Zoey wants more. I can feel it. A bigger life. A future that isn’t weighed down by ghosts and guilt.
And I want her to have that.
I just don’t know how to be part of it.
The thought hits me hard, sharp and undeniable.
Maybe the reason I drink isn’t to forget the past.
Maybe it’s to avoid the future.
My phone buzzes.
Zoey: Are you okay?
The concern in the message twists something inside me.
I stare at it for a long time before replying.
I don’t know, I type finally.
And for once, I don’t hate myself for telling the truth.
Because admitting I’m lost feels less painful than pretending I’m not. Even if it means facing the possibility that the person I love is already moving somewhere I can’t follow.