The email arrives at 9:04 a.m.
I’m in the library, halfway through annotating an article I’ve already read twice, pretending my hands aren’t shaking. My phone buzzes softly against the wooden table, and something in my chest tightens before I even look at the screen. My body has learned the pattern faster than my mind.
Subject: Request for Meeting — Student Affairs
I stare at it for a long moment, my cursor blinking uselessly on the laptop screen. Around me, the library hums with quiet productivity—pages turning, keyboards clicking, the low murmur of whispered conversations. Everyone else looks like they belong here. Like their futures aren’t constantly one bad decision away from unraveling.
I open the email.
It’s polite. Neutral. Professional. No accusations. No explanations either.
We would like to meet with you to discuss recent events involving a student with whom you are closely associated.
Closely associated.
My stomach twists.
I close my laptop slowly, as if sudden movements might make everything worse, and pack my bag with deliberate care. My reflection in the darkened screen looks pale, eyes too bright. I look like someone bracing for impact.
The walk to the administration building feels longer than usual. Every step echoes with the same thought looping relentlessly in my head.
This isn’t my fault. This isn’t my fault. This isn’t my—
But the thought keeps slipping, incomplete, because the truth is messier than absolution.
I sit in the waiting area, my knee bouncing uncontrollably. The same dean from before walks past, nods at me with polite familiarity. That somehow makes it worse. I don’t want to be familiar here.
“Zoey?” a woman calls.
I follow her into a small conference room, heart pounding. Two administrators sit across from me, hands folded, expressions composed. A folder lies on the table between us. I hate the sight of it immediately.
“Thank you for coming,” one of them says. “This won’t take long.”
I nod, clasping my hands together to stop them from shaking.
“We want to be clear,” the other begins, “this meeting is not disciplinary.”
Relief flickers through me, fragile and cautious.
“However,” he continues, “given your proximity to recent incidents involving Mr. Donovan, we felt it necessary to check in.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
They ask questions carefully, phrased like concern but edged with evaluation. How am I coping? Am I feeling safe? Has Chase’s behavior impacted my academic focus?
Each question feels like a test I didn’t study for.
“I’m managing,” I say. “My academics are stable.”
“That aligns with what we’ve seen,” the woman says. “Your performance has remained strong.”
I exhale slowly.
“But,” she adds, “continued involvement in volatile situations can become… complicated.”
There it is.
“We’re not suggesting you’re responsible for Mr. Donovan’s actions,” the man says. “But association can affect perception.”
Perception.
The word settles heavy in my chest.
“We want to ensure your academic trajectory isn’t jeopardized,” the woman finishes. “Especially given your upcoming competition commitments.”
I nod again, my throat tight. “I understand.”
The meeting ends with reassurances that feel anything but reassuring. As I leave, the folder stays on the table, but I know my name is inside it anyway. Written somewhere. Categorized. Contextualized.
Outside, the air feels sharp and cold. I breathe it in deeply, grounding myself, but my thoughts won’t slow down.
My future feels tethered to Chase’s instability, whether anyone admits it outright or not.
That terrifies me.
I wander campus aimlessly, letting my feet choose the direction. I pass the chess club room, the steps where Ellen and I sometimes sit, the quad where students laugh freely. I feel like I’m walking through a life that’s slightly out of phase with me.
My phone buzzes.
A message from Chase.
I heard you got called in. Are you okay?
I stare at the screen, my emotions tangling painfully. Concern. Anger. Love. Exhaustion.
I’m fine, I type back. Just shaken.
I’m sorry, he replies almost instantly. This is my fault.
The words make my chest ache.
Is it his fault? Yes.
Is it only his fault? No.
That’s the problem.
I sit on a bench near the edge of campus, watching cars pass beyond the gates. The world keeps moving, indifferent to my internal crisis. I think about everything I’ve built over the last year—my grades, my confidence, my sense of self slowly emerging from the wreckage of who I used to be.
I think about how fragile it all feels right now.
If I stay with Chase, my future remains uncertain, tethered to someone whose pain keeps spilling outward. If I leave him, I lose the relationship that once felt like survival, that still holds pieces of my heart.
Stay and risk my future.
Leave and risk my heart.
The choice feels cruel in its simplicity.
I think about Ellen’s question from weeks ago.
Do you feel safer with him, or just familiar?
The answer comes too easily now, and that scares me more than uncertainty ever did.
I don’t feel safe.
I feel vigilant. Responsible. On edge.
That isn’t love. Not the kind I want anymore.
My phone buzzes again. Another message from Chase.
Please don’t leave me because of this.
Tears prick my eyes.
I don’t want to abandon him. I don’t want to become another person who walks away when things get hard. I know what that does to someone. I’ve lived it.
But staying when it’s destroying you isn’t loyalty.
It’s self-erasure.
I type slowly, carefully.
I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, I send. But I can’t keep pretending everything is fine.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
I need you, he writes.
My chest tightens painfully.
I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temples.
Needing me isn’t the same as loving me.
And loving him doesn’t mean sacrificing my future.
The realization doesn’t bring relief. It brings grief. Deep, aching grief for the version of us that could’ve existed if things had gone differently.
I stand up, wiping my face, forcing myself to breathe evenly. I can’t make this decision today. But I know now that I will have to make it soon.
Because staying undecided is a decision too.
As I walk back toward my dorm, the administration building looms in the distance, a silent reminder that my life isn’t just emotional—it’s institutional, measurable, conditional. I can’t afford to pretend otherwise.
I love Chase.
But I love myself too.