The fresh start is Chase’s idea.
He says it like it’s a solution we just forgot to try, like all our damage can be packed away if we agree not to open certain boxes anymore. He says it with a tired kind of hope that makes me want to believe him, even though something in my chest already knows how this will go.
“Let’s just reset,” he says, sitting across from me on my bed. “No past fights. No assumptions. Just… us. From now on.”
I study his face. He looks earnest. Strained. Like someone holding a fragile object too tightly because they’re terrified it’ll break.
“Okay,” I say after a moment. “We can try.”
Relief floods his expression immediately, so fast it almost hurts to watch.
“Really?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But we have to actually try. Not just pretend.”
“I will,” he promises. “I swear.”
Day one feels almost normal.
We get coffee together in the morning. He walks me to class, his hand warm around mine, his thumb tracing absent patterns against my skin. We joke lightly, carefully, like people testing ice after a freeze. I catch myself smiling without effort, and for a moment I think—maybe this can work.
That afternoon, he actually studies. Not much, but enough to feel intentional. I don’t hover. I don’t remind him. I let him do it on his own, resisting the instinct to manage. It feels strange, like learning a new language.
That night, we watch a movie in his room. He doesn’t drink. He laughs at the right moments. When he pulls me close, the gesture feels affectionate instead of desperate.
I let myself relax.
Day two is harder.
He’s quiet in the morning, scrolling through his phone with a clenched jaw. I ask if he’s okay, and he shrugs.
“Just tired,” he says.
The familiar answer sends a flicker of unease through me, but I swallow it. Fresh start, I remind myself. No assumptions.
In the afternoon, I mention a meeting with my competition advisor. Not even excited—just factual.
His shoulders tense.
“That’s a lot,” he says. “You’re always busy now.”
“It’s just a meeting,” I reply carefully.
“Still,” he mutters. “Feels like I barely see you.”
I glance at him. “We spent all morning together.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Before you ran off to your important stuff.”
The word important lands with weight.
“I’m not doing this,” I say quietly.
He looks up, startled. “Doing what?”
“Turning my schedule into an accusation,” I reply.
He exhales sharply. “I’m just saying how I feel.”
“And I’m saying this feels familiar,” I say. “And not in a good way.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I said I’d try,” he says finally. “But it’s hard when it feels like you’re moving ahead without me.”
“I’m not leaving you behind,” I say. “I’m moving forward.”
He doesn’t respond.
Day three breaks something.
It starts small. It always does.
We’re walking across campus when we pass Professor Wilson talking to another faculty member. He doesn’t even look at me—not really. Just a brief nod of acknowledgment, polite and distant.
Still, I feel Chase stiffen beside me.
“You know him well, huh?” he says casually.
“Yes,” I reply. “He’s my professor.”
“You talk about him a lot,” Chase says.
I stop walking. “No, I don’t.”
He shrugs. “Feels like it.”
My chest tightens. “Why are you bringing this up now?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says quickly. “I just notice things.”
There it is.
The vigilance. The suspicion. The quiet tallying.
“I’m allowed to have mentors,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “I just don’t like the way he looks at you.”
The comment makes my stomach twist. “He doesn’t look at me inappropriately.”
“I didn’t say that,” Chase snaps. “Why are you getting defensive?”
Because you’re pushing, I think. Because you’re afraid. Because part of me is afraid too
.
“I don’t want to fight,” I say instead.
“Me neither,” he says. “But you’re acting weird lately.”
Something in me goes still.
“We said no assumptions,” I remind him.
“And we said honesty,” he shoots back.
“Yes,” I say. “Honesty. Not paranoia.”
He laughs, sharp and brittle. “So now I’m paranoid.”
“I didn’t say that,” I reply. “But this—this tone—this isn’t new.”
He turns away, jaw tight. “Forget it.”
We don’t talk much after that.
That night, we’re together in his room again. He kisses me like he’s trying to convince himself of something, his hands familiar but distracted. I kiss him back, because I still care, because habit is powerful, because saying no feels like admitting something I’m not ready to say out loud.
But it feels wrong.
Not wrong in a dramatic way. Just… hollow. Like we’re reenacting a version of us that no longer exists.
When he falls asleep, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, my thoughts racing.
I think about Ellen’s words. About not disappearing into guilt. About how attraction isn’t betrayal—but lying to yourself is.
I think about how much energy it takes to keep Chase steady. How often I scan his moods before speaking. How quickly joy turns into something I need to downplay.
And then, uninvited but persistent, my mind drifts to Professor Wilson—not to anything inappropriate, not to fantasies, but to the feeling of safety I associate with him. The steadiness. The lack of volatility.
The contrast hurts.
I hate myself for noticing it.
The next morning, Chase wakes up irritable, snapping at nothing. He forgot an assignment. He blames the professor. He complains about Scott, about campus, about how everything feels stacked against him.
I listen. I nod. I offer sympathy.
But something in me has shifted.
I’m still here, but I’m not fully inside it anymore.
When he asks, “You’re quiet. What’s wrong?” I almost tell him the truth.
Instead, I say, “I’m just tired.”
The words taste familiar.
We last three days.
On the fourth, the fresh start collapses under the weight of everything we refused to name. He accuses me of being distant. I accuse him of being controlling. He says I make him feel small. I say I feel like I’m shrinking to keep him comfortable.
Neither of us is wrong.
That’s the worst part.
After the argument, I walk alone across campus, the cold air biting at my cheeks. My phone buzzes with messages I don’t open yet. My chest feels tight, but not panicked.
Clear.
For the first time, I allow myself to think the thought all the way through, without flinching.
Love isn’t supposed to feel like constant negotiation.
It isn’t supposed to require me to dim my life so someone else can tolerate standing next to me.
It isn’t supposed to make me afraid of my own growth.
I don’t know what this means yet. I don’t know if we’re at the end or just another breaking point.
I don't know if I know anything.