I don’t notice the question at first.
It slips into the air between bites of cafeteria food and the scrape of chairs, casual and almost kind, like it’s meant to be harmless.
“You and Chase,” a girl from my ethics seminar says, tilting her head as she stirs her coffee. “You guys okay?”
I blink. “Yeah. Why?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. You just don’t look very… in love lately.”
The word lands heavier than it should.
Across the table, Ellen freezes for half a second, then keeps eating like she didn’t hear it. I wish I had her composure. I stare at my plate, suddenly unable to remember what I was eating.
“We’re fine,” I say automatically.
The girl nods slowly, unconvinced but polite enough not to push. “I just meant—you look like you’re carrying a lot. Alone.”
There’s no malice in her voice. That makes it worse.
I force a smile. “Chase has some issues right now. It’s nothing.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel it.
The shift in the air.
Ellen’s fork stops mid-motion. My stomach drops.
Because I don’t need to look up to know Chase is behind me.
I feel him before I see him—the heat of his presence, the way the space tightens like it’s bracing for impact. His shadow stretches across the table, cutting through the fluorescent light.
“Some issues,” he repeats.
I turn slowly.
His face is blank in that dangerous way, eyes dark and unreadable. He hasn’t been drinking—at least, not yet—but the tension in his jaw tells me this won’t end quietly.
“Chase,” I say, standing. “I didn’t—”
“So now I’m a problem,” he says. His voice is calm. Too calm. “That something people should whisper about over lunch.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly. “I was just—”
“Explaining me,” he finishes. “To strangers.”
The girl at the table looks mortified. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Chase snaps, not looking at her. “This is apparently a public conversation.”
Ellen stands. “Maybe we should take this somewhere else.”
Chase finally looks at her, eyes sharp. “Stay out of it.”
“Hey,” I say, heat rushing to my face. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
He laughs once, short and humorless. “Right. Of course. Defend her.”
“That’s not what this is,” I say. “You overheard one sentence and turned it into—”
“Into the truth?” he cuts in. “You think I don’t hear it? The way you talk about me now? Like I’m some obstacle you’re managing.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, my voice shaking. “I was asked a question.”
“And you answered it by making me look small,” he says. “Congratulations.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
Because the truth is, I did mean it. Not to hurt him. Not to humiliate him. But I meant it because it’s true.
He has issues.
And pretending otherwise hasn’t helped either of us.
“Can we not do this here?” I ask quietly. “Please.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then nods sharply. “Fine.”
He turns and walks away without waiting to see if I follow.
I do.
We don’t speak until we’re outside, the cold air biting at my skin. The quad is nearly empty, students scattered and distant. He stops near the fountain, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“So,” he says. “Explain.”
I swallow. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” he asks.
I hesitate.
That’s all it takes.
“There it is again,” he says bitterly. “That pause.”
“I was trying to be honest without being cruel,” I say. “You are struggling, Chase. That’s not an insult.”
“To you,” he says. “Because you get to struggle while still winning.”
“That’s not true,” I snap. “You think this is easy for me?”
“No,” he replies. “I think you like it.”
The accusation hits hard.
“You like being the strong one,” he continues. “The capable one. The one with potential.”
“That’s not something to be ashamed of,” I say. “And I don’t like it when it comes at the cost of us.”
He steps closer. “Then stop talking about me like I’m beneath you.”
“I’m not,” I insist. “I’m worried about you.”
“Worry feels a lot like judgment,” he says. “Especially when it’s constant.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy and frayed.
“People notice,” he adds quietly. “The way you look at me now. Like you’re waiting for me to disappoint you.”
My chest tightens. “Because you keep doing it.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
His face hardens. “There it is.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” he says. “You finally said it.”
I feel tears sting my eyes, anger and grief tangling together. “I’m exhausted, Chase. I keep trying to reach you and it’s like you’re running in the opposite direction.”
“Maybe because every time I stop,” he says, “you remind me how far behind I am.”
“That’s not my fault,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s mine.”
The admission knocks the air out of me.
“Then do something about it,” I say. “Please.”
He laughs softly. “You sound like my therapist.”
“I sound like your girlfriend,” I reply. “Or at least I’m trying to.”
He looks away.
We end up back in his room without deciding to go there. It just happens, muscle memory guiding us. The door closes behind us with a dull click that feels final somehow.
We stand awkwardly, the tension thick enough to taste.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
He steps toward me, hands coming to my waist, familiar and distant all at once. When he kisses me, it’s perfunctory, like checking off a box. I kiss him back automatically, my body responding even as my mind pulls away.
This is what it’s become. Mechanical. Resentful.
He moves us toward the bed, and I go because it feels easier than stopping. Because stopping would mean talking more. Feeling more. Facing the truth that’s been pressing against my ribs for weeks.
His touch lacks the urgency it used to have. There’s no curiosity, no hunger—just routine. I close my eyes, trying to summon the connection that used to feel electric.
It doesn’t come.
At one point, he mutters, “You still want this, right?”
“Yes,” I say, because it’s simpler than explaining the complicated no curling in my chest.
After, we lie side by side, not touching.
The silence is louder than any argument.
“I heard what you said,” he finally says. “About me.”
“I know.”
“You think you’re better than me,” he says flatly.
I turn toward him. “I think I’m changing.”
“That’s the same thing,” he replies.
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
He doesn’t answer.
I dress quietly and stand at the door, my hand on the handle. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know,” he says. “You just did anyway.”
I leave with that sitting heavy in my chest.