I don’t expect to see him.
That’s the problem.
If I’d known Chase was anywhere near the humanities building that morning, I would have taken a different route. I would have turned around. I would have hidden in the bathroom, pretended I forgot something, done anything except walk straight into the moment that knocks the air out of my lungs.
But life doesn’t warn you before it hurts you again.
I’m halfway down the steps, my head bent over my phone as I reread an email from the academic office for the third time, when I hear my name.
“Zoey.”
It’s quiet. Almost tentative.
I freeze.
For half a second, I consider pretending I didn’t hear it. My feet don’t move. My body feels locked, like if I stay still enough, the moment will pass without touching me.
“Zoey,” the voice repeats, closer now.
I lift my head slowly.
He’s standing a few feet away from me, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders slumped in a way I don’t remember. His hair looks unwashed, his jaw rough with stubble. There are dark circles under his eyes, deep enough that they look almost bruised.
Chase.
The sight of him hits me like a memory and a warning all at once.
“Oh,” I say.
It’s the stupidest word I could have chosen, thin and useless, but it’s all my brain manages to produce.
“Hey,” he replies.
Neither of us moves.
Students stream past us on both sides, laughing, brushing shoulders, existing in a way that feels obscene given how much tension is suddenly vibrating between us. I’m painfully aware of how close he is, how familiar his presence feels despite everything.
He looks worse.
That’s the first clear thought that cuts through the fog in my head.
Not dramatic-worse. Not falling-apart-worse.
Just… hollow.
“You look tired,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Yeah. You too.”
I huff a weak breath. “Guess we’re even.”
Silence stretches.
I clutch my phone tighter in my hand, grounding myself in the solid edge of it. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
“I didn’t know you had class here,” I say finally.
“I don’t,” he replies. “I was… around.”
That non-answer sits heavy between us.
“Right,” I murmur.
I glance past him instinctively, scanning for an escape route, but my feet won’t cooperate. Part of me wants to run. Another part—traitorous, familiar—feels an immediate sense of relief.
He’s real.
He’s here.
He hasn’t vanished yet.
I hate myself for that thought.
“How have you been?” he asks quietly.
I laugh once, sharp and brittle. “That’s a loaded question.”
He nods. “Yeah. Fair.”
Another pause.
He shifts his weight, rocking slightly on his heels. The movement is restless, uneasy.
“I heard you haven’t been going to some classes,” he says carefully.
My shoulders tense. “People talk a lot.”
“I’m not people,” he replies.
The words land heavier than he probably intends.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just dealing with things.”
“Things,” he repeats, testing the word.
“Yes,” I say, firmer now. “Things.”
He watches me closely, eyes searching my face in a way that makes my skin prickle. I force myself not to look away.
“You look… different,” he says.
“Different how?”
He hesitates. “Tired. But also… sharper. Like you’re braced for impact.”
I swallow hard.
“Maybe I am,” I say.
He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
My chest tightens. “About what?”
“About everything,” he replies. “About us.”
There it is.
The word hangs between us like a fragile object neither of us knows how to hold anymore.
“I don’t know if now is a good time,” I say honestly.
“When is?” he counters softly.
I don’t have an answer for that.
We stand there, suspended in the middle of a campus walkway, the world moving around us while we stay painfully still.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” I say again, quieter this time.
He snorts softly. “Haven’t really.”
“Are you okay?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The question slips out automatically, muscle memory kicking in.
For a second, something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or hurt.
“Are you?” he shoots back.
I press my lips together.
“That bad, huh?” he mutters.
“That complicated,” I correct.
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Same.”
The silence that follows is different now—less tense, more heavy. Familiar in the worst way.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” he admits. “But… I’m glad I did.”
The honesty in his voice makes my chest ache.
“I don’t know how to feel about that,” I reply.
“That makes two of us.”
I glance down at my phone, then back up at him. “I should go.”
“Of course,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
But neither of us moves.
“Zoey,” he says, stopping me when I finally take a step back.
“Yes?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His jaw tightens, like he’s fighting with himself.
“I just want you to know,” he says finally, “I never thought you were wrong for wanting more.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
“I didn’t say you did,” I reply.
“No,” he says. “But I want you to hear it anyway.”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Another pause.
“I’m not doing great,” he admits quietly. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”
I look at him then—really look. At the slump in his shoulders, the exhaustion etched into his face, the way his hands curl into fists inside his pockets.
Relief and dread twist together in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?” he asks.
“For both of us,” I reply.
His eyes soften for a split second. Then he looks away.
“I don’t want to trap you in this conversation,” he says. “I know you’re… dealing with your own shit.”
I give a small, tired smile. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I’ll let you go,” he says.
“Okay.”
I step back, forcing my feet to move this time. As I pass him, the familiar scent of his cologne hits me, and my throat tightens painfully.
“Zoey,” he says again, softer now.
I stop but don’t turn around.
“I’m still here,” he says. “If you ever want to talk.”
The words echo in my head as I walk away.
I don’t look back.
My hands are shaking by the time I reach the end of the walkway. I duck into the nearest bathroom and lock myself into a stall, pressing my forehead against the cool metal door.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
My heart is racing, my chest tight with a mixture of relief and fear.
Seeing him didn’t fix anything.
But it didn’t destroy me either.
And somehow, that makes everything more dangerous.