The chess club room smells like dry erase markers and dust, the kind of space that exists quietly on the edges of campus life. It’s tucked away on the second floor, past classrooms people only use for electives they don’t brag about. I like it immediately for that reason alone.
No one here looks impressed by anything.
Boards are already set up when I arrive, black and white squares lined up with methodical precision. Pieces sit perfectly centered, patient. Waiting. There’s something comforting about that—about rules that don’t shift depending on who’s watching.
“Hey,” Ellen says softly from the corner, lifting her hand in a small wave.
I walk over and sit beside her. “Hi.”
We don’t hug. We don’t do that thing where people pretend intimacy. We just exist next to each other, which feels better.
Around us, people talk in low voices. There’s a guy with wire-rim glasses explaining an opening strategy to someone who nods too eagerly. A girl with dark hair tied in a severe bun scribbles notes in the margin of a notebook instead of setting up a board.
“That’s Mara,” Ellen murmurs, following my gaze. “She’s… intense.”
Mara looks up suddenly, eyes sharp, and meets my stare. There’s no smile. No curiosity. Just assessment.
I look away first.
“Is she good?” I ask.
Ellen shrugs. “She wins a lot.”
The club president, a tall senior named Lucas, claps his hands lightly. “Okay, everyone. Pair up for casual matches today. No rankings, just practice.”
Murmurs ripple through the room as people shift. I hesitate, suddenly unsure of where to go. Ellen starts to stand.
“We can play,” she offers.
Before I can answer, someone steps between us.
“I’ll take her.”
Mara.
She doesn’t ask. She just pulls out the chair across from mine and sits, already arranging her pieces.
“Oh,” Ellen says, startled. “I—”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “We can play later.”
Ellen hesitates, then nods and moves to another table.
Mara finally looks at me properly, her gaze flicking over my face, my posture, the way I set my bag down.
“You’re Zoey,” she says.
I blink. “Yeah.”
“You joined last week.”
“Yes.”
She arches a brow. “You’re not bad.”
The comment feels less like praise and more like a test.
“Thanks,” I reply.
She moves first without asking, sliding a pawn forward. Aggressive opening.
“So,” she says casually, “you’re the competition girl.”
My hand pauses over a knight. “I guess.”
“People talk,” she continues. “About how you’re everywhere now. Chess. Book club. Competitions.”
I make my move. “Is that a problem?”
She smiles thinly. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you actually belong,” she says.
The words land quietly but sharply.
I straighten slightly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She tilts her head. “Some people collect achievements like armor. Makes them feel untouchable.”
I meet her gaze. “And some people gatekeep rooms to feel important.”
Her smile widens, a flash of something like approval—or maybe irritation.
“Careful,” she says. “Confidence can look like arrogance real fast.”
“So can insecurity,” I reply.
We play in silence after that, the air between us charged. Her moves are precise, calculated. She’s good—really good—but predictable in a way I recognize from my own habits. She favors control over risk.
I exploit it.
Twenty minutes later, she stares at the board, jaw tight.
“You saw that coming,” she says.
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
She leans back, studying me again. “You’re better than I thought.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“It means people like you make things uncomfortable,” she says. “You walk into spaces already convinced you’ll win.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “I walk into spaces terrified I won’t.”
She scoffs. “Please.”
“I’m serious,” I insist. “You think confidence means certainty. It doesn’t. It means choosing not to flinch.”
She doesn’t respond, just makes her next move harder than necessary, snapping the piece down.
I end up winning.
Not by much. But enough.
Mara exhales sharply. “Rematch next week.”
“That wasn’t a question,” I say lightly.
She smirks. “No. It wasn’t.”
When the meeting wraps up, clusters of people form, conversations overlapping. A few members glance my way with open curiosity now. Someone nods at me in passing. Another asks how long I’ve been playing.
“Since I was a kid,” I answer. “On and off.”
“Figures,” one guy says. “You’re very… composed.”
I smile politely, the word echoing oddly in my head.
Composed.
Ellen finds me near the door. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s… something.”
“She doesn’t like losing,” Ellen replies.
“She doesn’t like me,” I correct.
Ellen considers that. “She doesn’t like that you don’t need her approval.”
The observation lands deeper than I expect.
We walk out together, the hallway quiet. The book club meets down the hall later, and I can already feel the shift between spaces—the difference between strategy and discussion, logic and interpretation.
In book club, it’s softer. Chairs in a circle. Voices overlapping. People disagree without hostility. I talk about a passage that resonated with me, my voice steady. Someone nods. Someone else challenges me thoughtfully.
I belong here too.
The realization feels dangerous.
After the meeting, I linger, packing my bag slowly. A girl I recognize but haven’t spoken to approaches.
“You’re Zoey, right?”
“Yes.”
“I liked what you said about agency,” she says. “In the book.”
“Thank you.”
She hesitates. “People don’t always like that kind of confidence.”
I smile faintly. “I’m noticing.”
She laughs softly and walks away.
On my way back to my room, my phone buzzes.
Chase: Where are you?
Chess club, I reply.
A pause.
You’re really into that now, he writes.
I like it, I answer.
Seems like you’re always busy lately.
The words feel loaded.
I still make time for you, I type carefully.
Another pause.
Yeah, he replies. Just feels like you don’t need me as much.
My chest tightens.
That’s not true, I write. I want you.
But even as I send it, something in me hesitates.
Because wanting someone and needing them aren’t the same thing. And lately, I’m realizing how much of my life I’ve built around being needed—by Chase, by my mother, by everyone.
Chess doesn’t need me.
Books don’t need me.
They just exist. And I meet them where I am.