POV: Chase
I know I failed the exam before the grade even loads.
There’s a feeling that settles in my stomach when I click the portal open, something cold and inevitable, like stepping onto ice you already know won’t hold your weight. My cursor hovers over the screen for a second longer than necessary. I tell myself not to be dramatic. I tell myself I’ve survived worse.
The page refreshes.
F.
I stare at the letter until it stops looking real. Until it turns into a shape instead of a judgment. Until my mind starts scrambling for somewhere else to land.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter.
I slam the laptop shut harder than I mean to, the sound echoing in the quiet room. My hands are shaking—not with surprise, but with rage. Hot, pulsing, desperate rage that needs somewhere to go.
I failed because the exam was unfair.
I failed because the professor hates me.
I failed because Scott’s been messing with my head.
I failed because the system is rigged.
All of those explanations rush in at once, loud and convincing, drowning out the one I refuse to touch.
I didn’t study enough.
I pace the room, dragging my hands through my hair. My chest feels tight, my thoughts looping in violent circles. I grab my phone, then put it down, then grab it again.
Zoey.
She knew this exam mattered. She’d offered to help me study. Multiple times. Flashcards. Notes. A schedule.
I ignored all of it.
Because sitting down to study meant sitting still with myself. And that’s the one thing I can’t seem to do.
I shove my feet into my shoes and storm out, the hallway blurring past me. I don’t know where I’m going at first—just away. Away from the room, away from the grade, away from the version of myself that keeps proving everyone right.
By the time I realize where my feet are taking me, it’s too late to turn around.
The bar door swings open like it always does.
The bartender glances up. “Early today.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Rough morning.”
He pours without asking.
I knock it back fast, the burn welcome, grounding. Another follows. Then another. Each one dulls the edge just enough to let me breathe.
Scott’s face keeps flashing in my mind anyway.
You peaked in high school.
I slam my glass down harder than necessary.
“This isn’t about you,” I mutter to myself.
But it is. It always is.
I think about Zoey’s face when she talks about her future—bright, focused, alive in a way that makes me feel like I’m standing still while she accelerates past me. I think about how she tries to include me, tries to pull me forward, and how every attempt feels like pressure instead of help.
She doesn’t understand what it’s like to wake up already exhausted. To feel like every expectation is another reminder of how far behind you are.
My phone buzzes.
Zoey.
How did the exam go?
I stare at the screen, my jaw tightening.
Bad, I type back.
A pause.
Do you want to talk about it? she asks.
The offer feels heavy. Loaded. Like an obligation I don’t have the energy to meet.
There’s nothing to talk about, I reply.
Chase, she writes. I told you this one mattered.
That does it.
The anger flares hot and fast, fueled by alcohol and shame.
Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t distracting me all the time, I type, the words spilling out before I can stop them. I could focus.
I regret it immediately.
But not enough to take it back.
Her response takes longer this time.
Distracting you? she writes. By trying to help?
I scoff out loud.
You’re always busy with your clubs and competitions and professors, I shoot back. It’s like you’re living this whole other life.
That’s not fair, she replies. I’ve been asking you to be part of it.
Yeah, I type, my vision blurring slightly. Your life. Not mine.
There’s a long pause.
I can’t stop growing just to make you comfortable, she finally writes.
The sentence lands like a punch to the chest.
I set the phone down, breathing hard, the noise of the bar suddenly too loud, too close. I finish my drink even though my stomach churns.
I don’t want to hear this.
I don’t want to feel this.
I stumble back to campus later, the sun already dipping low, my head buzzing unpleasantly. I avoid the main paths, cutting through side corridors like I’m trying to outrun my own shadow.
When I get back to my room, I collapse onto the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. The grade replays in my head. The conversations. Scott’s voice. Zoey’s messages.
I grab my phone again, scrolling through old texts, old photos. Us laughing. Us tangled together. Us before everything felt like a test I keep failing.
I don’t hate her.
That’s the problem.
If I hated her, this would be easier. I could blame her fully. I could walk away angry and righteous and convinced I was wronged.
But I don’t hate her.
I resent her.
And that feels worse.
Because resentment is quieter. It seeps in slowly, poisoning things without announcing itself. It turns love into something sharp and brittle.
There’s a knock on the door.
I ignore it.
Another knock. Firmer.
“Chase,” Zoey’s voice calls softly. “I know you’re in there.”
My chest tightens. I sit up slowly, my head pounding.
I open the door.
She looks tired. Concerned. Real.
“What?” I ask, harsher than I mean to.
“I came to check on you,” she says. “You stopped answering.”
“I’m fine.”
She looks past me, taking in the room, the half-empty bottle on the desk.
“You’re not,” she says quietly.
“Don’t start,” I snap. “I had a bad day.”
“We all do,” she replies. “That doesn’t mean you get to push me away.”
I laugh bitterly. “You don’t need me anyway.”
Her eyes flicker. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true,” I say. “You’re doing great. Everyone sees it. Everyone talks about it.”
“And you think that makes me the enemy?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “It makes me irrelevant.”
“That’s not how I see you,” she insists.
“Then open your eyes,” I snap. “Because I’m failing everything while you’re being praised in hallways I’m not even invited into.”
She steps closer. “I wanted to share those things with you.”
“And I didn’t want to feel like shit every time you did,” I shoot back.
The silence that follows is thick and final.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she says softly.
Something in her tone is different. Tired. Distant.
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Fighting for both of us,” she replies. “While you fight me instead.”
I look away, my jaw clenched.
“I need space tonight,” she adds.
“Fine,” I mutter.
She hesitates at the door. “I care about you, Chase.”
I don’t respond.
When the door closes behind her, the room feels emptier than it did before she arrived. I lie back down, staring at the ceiling again, my thoughts slow and heavy.
For the first time, I let myself admit it fully, without deflection or blame.
I’m not just failing exams.
I’m failing to show up.