The call comes at 2:17 a.m.
I know it’s bad before I answer. My body knows—heart racing, stomach dropping, skin buzzing with that electric dread that doesn’t bother knocking. I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over a stack of notes I meant to review tomorrow. Or today. Time feels slippery when fear takes over.
“Zoey?” Chase’s mother says, her voice tight, controlled in the way people get when they’re trying not to panic. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “What happened?”
There’s a pause. Not long. Just long enough to feel deliberate.
“They found Chase,” she says. “On campus.”
The words thud into me, heavy and hollow.
“Found him how?” I ask.
“Drinking,” she answers. “After hours. Near the old science building.”
I sit up, the room spinning slightly. “Is he okay?”
“He’s… conscious,” she says. “But campus security is involved.”
My chest tightens. “Is he hurt?”
“No,” she replies. “Not physically.”
I close my eyes. Images flash—Chase slumped against a wall, bottle in his hand, the look on his face when he’s already halfway gone. Shame and anger and something like relief all tangled together.
“What does this mean?” I ask.
Another pause. “It means he’s very close to being suspended.”
The word lands like a crack in glass.
“I’m on my way,” I say, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
“Zoey,” she says quickly. “You don’t need to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt. “Please. Just tell me where.”
The walk across campus feels unreal, the paths empty and washed in yellow light. My breath fogs in the cold. Every step echoes too loudly. I replay our last argument in my head, the way his eyes went distant when I mentioned being scared. I think about how many times I ignored the signs because loving him felt like a job I couldn’t quit.
Outside the administrative building, campus security stands near the entrance. Chase’s mother is there, wrapped in a coat she must have thrown on in a hurry, her face pale but composed.
“He’s inside,” she says quietly when she sees me.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
We wait in a stiff, fluorescent-lit room that smells like old paper and disinfectant. A security officer stands near the door, arms crossed, polite but watchful. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, staring at the floor, trying not to imagine worst-case scenarios.
After a few minutes, Chase is escorted in.
He looks wrecked.
His hair is mussed, his eyes bloodshot, his movements slow and unsteady. There’s a dark stain on the sleeve of his jacket—spilled alcohol, I guess. He doesn’t look at me at first. When he does, something flickers across his face—relief, then irritation, then something like guilt.
“Zoey,” he mutters.
“Chase,” I say softly.
A dean enters the room, followed by another administrator. They’re calm, professional, the kind of calm that makes your mistakes feel clinical.
“This is a serious violation,” the dean says. “Alcohol on campus, after hours, with prior incidents on record.”
My stomach twists.
“We understand there are personal circumstances,” the other administrator adds. “But policy is policy.”
Chase’s mother straightens. “He’s been struggling,” she says. “And he’s willing to comply with any corrective measures.”
Chase stares at the floor.
“We’re prepared to recommend probation rather than suspension,” the dean says, “provided there’s immediate intervention.”
Relief surges through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
“Thank you,” Chase’s mother says.
The meeting drags on—conditions, requirements, mandatory counseling, academic oversight. I listen, nodding occasionally, my mind buzzing. At one point, the dean looks at me.
“Are you a support person?” he asks.
I hesitate. “I’m his girlfriend.”
He nods once. “We encourage you to support him—but understand that responsibility ultimately lies with the student.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
Responsibility ultimately lies with the student.
When the meeting ends, we step outside into the cold night. Chase’s mother thanks the administrators again, then turns to Chase, her expression softening just enough to show how exhausted she is.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she says. “At home.”
He nods, sullen. “Okay.”
She looks at me. “Thank you for coming.”
I manage a small smile. “Of course.”
She leaves, her car disappearing into the darkness.
Chase and I stand there, the space between us thick with everything unsaid.
“I didn’t need you to come,” he says finally.
“Yes, you did,” I reply quietly.
He scoffs. “I’m not a child.”
“I know,” I say. “But you’re not okay either.”
He rubs his face with both hands. “I messed up.”
“Yes,” I agree. “You did.”
The honesty makes him flinch.
“I’m trying,” he says. “It’s just—everything feels heavy.”
“I know,” I say. “But drinking on campus? You could’ve been suspended.”
He looks away. “I don’t care anymore.”
“That’s what scares me,” I say, my voice cracking despite my efforts to keep it steady. “You don’t care what happens to you.”
He doesn’t answer.
We start walking, aimless, the night quiet around us. I keep replaying the dean’s words in my head. Responsibility ultimately lies with the student. I’ve been carrying that responsibility like it’s mine.
I think about all the times I covered for him. The times I smoothed things over, rewrote his excuses into something palatable, stayed up worrying while he disappeared into himself. I think about how often I’ve felt like a guardrail instead of a partner.
“Zoey,” he says suddenly. “You’re mad.”
“Yes,” I say. “And tired.”
He stops walking. “So what, you’re giving up on me now?”
The accusation is sharp, familiar.
“No,” I say. “I’m giving up on pretending this is something I can fix.”
He stares at me. “That’s the same thing.”
“It isn’t,” I reply. “Loving you doesn’t mean absorbing your consequences.”
He laughs bitterly. “Sounds like something your professors would say.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe it’s something I should’ve learned sooner.”
He steps closer. “I need you.”
The words tug at me, instinctive and powerful. For a moment, my old reflex kicks in—to step forward, to promise, to reassure.
I don’t.
“I care about you,” I say instead. “But I can’t be your safety net.”
His eyes darken. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Get help,” I say. “For you. Not because you’re afraid of losing me. Because you’re afraid of losing yourself.”
He looks away, jaw tight.
We stand there in silence, the weight of the night pressing down on us.
When I finally head back to my room alone, my legs feel shaky, my thoughts loud. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest.
I’m still worried about him. That hasn’t changed.
But something else has.
I replay the meeting again—the calm professionalism, the clear boundaries, the way the administrators separated concern from responsibility. They didn’t hate him. They didn’t rescue him either.
They let consequences exist.
I realize how often I’ve confused love with intervention. How I’ve taken on the emotional labor of managing his crises as if that’s what makes me a good partner.
It isn’t.
I open my phone and scroll through our messages, stopping at the moments where I softened truths, minimized my needs, made myself smaller to keep things stable.
I don’t feel strong right now.
But I feel clearer.