I don’t plan it.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I cross campus with purpose instead of avoidance, my steps quick and uneven, my heart pounding so hard it makes my ears ring. If I planned it, it would mean I had time to doubt myself. To talk myself out of it. To convince myself that silence is safer than truth.
But silence is killing me.
I find him where I half-expected to—near the back of the campus, sitting on the low concrete wall by the old sports field. The place everyone forgets exists. The place that feels unfinished and abandoned, like it never decided what it was supposed to become.
Chase is hunched forward, elbows on his knees, a cigarette between his fingers even though he doesn’t light it. He’s just holding it there, staring at nothing.
He looks up when he hears my footsteps.
For a second, his face does something complicated—surprise, relief, wariness—all layered together so tightly it hurts to look at.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply.
Neither of us smiles.
I stop a few feet away, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. The wind tugs at my hair, cold and insistent. I suddenly don’t know where to put my hands, my eyes, my body.
“You okay?” he asks.
The question is automatic. Muscle memory.
“No,” I say honestly.
He nods, like he expected that. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches between us, thick but not hostile. Familiar in the way only shared history can be.
“I didn’t mean to ambush you earlier,” I say. “On the steps.”
“You didn’t,” he replies. “I’m the one who called your name.”
I swallow. “Still.”
He flicks the cigarette away, grinding it under his shoe. “What’s up?”
There it is.
The opening.
I take a breath that feels like it scrapes my lungs on the way in. “I needed to talk to you.”
He studies my face carefully. “That usually doesn’t end well.”
I let out a weak huff. “You’re not wrong.”
He waits. He doesn’t rush me. That alone almost breaks me.
“I screwed up,” I say finally.
His brow furrows. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not going to start there.”
He straightens slightly, alert now.
“I need to tell you everything,” I continue. “And I need you to listen without interrupting me.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”
I pace once, then stop in front of him again. My hands shake, so I lace my fingers together to keep them still.
“I thought I was choosing myself,” I say. “When I walked away from you.”
He flinches slightly but doesn’t speak.
“I thought I was doing the healthy thing,” I continue. “I thought I was finally breaking a cycle—choosing stability over chaos.”
My throat tightens. “I didn’t leave you because I stopped caring.”
His jaw clenches.
“I left because I was scared,” I admit. “Scared of staying stuck. Scared of watching you drown and pretending I could save you.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes fixed on the ground.
“And I thought,” I go on, “that maybe there was something else ahead of me. Something calmer. Something adult.”
His shoulders tense.
“I didn’t cheat on you,” I say quickly. “I didn’t cross any lines. But I let myself imagine a future that didn’t include us.”
The words feel brutal and necessary.
“And then,” I say, my voice cracking slightly, “that future collapsed in the most humiliating way possible.”
He looks up at that.
“My mother,” I say. “Is dating him.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Chase’s eyes widen slightly. “Dating… who?”
“Professor Wilson,” I say. “The one I told you about.”
For a moment, he just stares at me. Then he lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
His expression shifts—shock giving way to anger, then something darker and harder to read.
“That’s… fucked up,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It is.”
I press my palm against my chest, grounding myself. “I found out by accident. Walked in on them. Holding hands. Like it was nothing.”
He swears under his breath.
“And then my mother told me I was projecting,” I add. “That I was being irrational. That my feelings weren’t her responsibility.”
His hands curl into fists. “She actually said that?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Jesus, Zoey.”
“I felt stupid,” I say quietly. “For ever thinking that situation was safe. For letting myself want something that was never mine to want.”
I swallow hard.
“And suddenly,” I continue, “everything I thought I’d chosen… didn’t exist anymore.”
He looks at me then, really looks. “Is that why you look like you haven’t slept in a week?”
I let out a broken laugh. “Probably.”
Silence falls again. This one feels heavier. Truer.
“I didn’t come here to ask you to fix anything,” I say quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sit alone with this anymore.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
“And I need to say this,” I add, my voice shaking now. “I didn’t leave you because you weren’t enough.”
His breath stutters.
“I left because I didn’t know how to keep myself alive while staying with you,” I say. “And I hated myself for that.”
He looks away, jaw tight. “You think I don’t hate myself too?”
I don’t respond immediately.
“I’m not asking you to take me back,” I say softly. “I just needed you to know the truth.”
He laughs bitterly. “Funny. I spent weeks thinking you chose someone better.”
“I didn’t,” I say immediately. “I chose an illusion.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Do you regret leaving?”
The question hangs between us, raw and dangerous.
I hesitate.
“I regret how alone I feel right now,” I say honestly. “I regret believing there was a painless option.”
He nods. “That’s fair.”
Another pause.
“I missed you,” he admits quietly. “Even when I was pissed.”
“I missed you too,” I whisper.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
We both freeze.
“I don’t know what that means anymore,” I add quickly. “I don’t know what’s real and what’s just familiarity.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Same.”
“I’m angry,” I continue. “At my mother. At him. At myself. And I don’t know where to put it.”
He looks at me again, eyes softer now. “You don’t have to put it anywhere right now.”
The kindness in his voice hits me unexpectedly.
“I thought choosing myself would feel empowering,” I say. “Instead it feels like standing in a void.”
He gives a humorless smile. “Welcome to growth.”
I laugh weakly.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I say. “I don’t know if we can ever be what we were.”
He nods. “We can’t.”
The certainty in his tone surprises me.
“But,” he adds, “that doesn’t mean we’re nothing.”
I study him carefully. He seems calmer than I expected. Less reactive. More… distant.
“You seem different,” I say.
He shrugs. “I had time to think.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that loving you doesn’t mean owning you,” he replies. “Or keeping you stuck with me.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“I don’t want to use you as a lifeline,” I say. “I don’t want to crawl back just because everything else burned.”
He nods. “Good.”
“But I also don’t want to pretend you don’t matter,” I add.
“I don’t want that either,” he says.
We sit there in the cold wind, two people stripped of illusions, staring at the wreckage between us.
“I thought I was choosing myself,” I repeat softly.
He looks at me. “Maybe you were.”
“Then why does it feel like I lost everything?”
“Because choosing yourself doesn’t come with applause,” he says. “It comes with consequences.”
I close my eyes briefly, letting that sink in.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“So am I,” he says.
We don’t touch.
We don’t promise anything.
But for the first time since everything fell apart, I don’t feel completely invisible.