POV: Chase
I tell myself this is what I wanted.
That agreeing to try again with Zoey should feel like relief, like finally getting air back into my lungs after weeks of suffocating. I tell myself this is the second chance people talk about—the one where you’re supposed to do things right, slower, smarter, less messy.
But when I say yes to her, something in me doesn’t click back into place.
It just… stays quiet.
We’re sitting on the same concrete wall where she told me everything—about her mother, about Wilson, about the illusion she thought she was choosing. She looks fragile and fierce at the same time, eyes bright with exhaustion, hands twisting together like she’s holding herself together by force.
“I’m not asking for promises,” she says. “I just… don’t want to lose you completely.”
I hear the words. I understand them.
I still say yes.
“Okay,” I tell her. “We can try.”
The moment hangs there, waiting for something to bloom.
Nothing does.
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for days. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Really.”
She smiles back, tentative and hopeful, and guilt punches me hard enough that I almost flinch.
Because I do love her.
That part hasn’t gone away.
But it hurts differently now—duller, heavier, like an old injury that never healed right.
We don’t kiss.
That should have been my first clue.
Instead, we sit there a little longer, shoulders not touching, talking about logistics instead of feelings. When to see each other. Keeping things quiet. Taking it slow.
“I don’t want to make things worse for you,” she says. “Academically. Emotionally.”
I nod. “Yeah. Same.”
Another lie, smaller than the first.
Because I don’t actually know how to make anything better anymore.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, phone facedown on my chest. My room smells like stale air and cheap detergent. The walls feel closer than they used to.
Trying again should feel like hope.
Instead, it feels like pressure.
I replay her words in my head—I thought I was choosing myself—and something sharp twists in my stomach. Not anger. Not exactly.
Fear.
Because what if she chooses herself again?
What if this is just a pause before she leaves for good?
I turn onto my side, staring at the dark.
I don’t trust her choice.
I hate myself for that.
The next time we see each other, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
We walk through campus side by side, not holding hands. People glance at us, curious, confused. I feel exposed, like we’re pretending at something neither of us fully believes in.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing at me.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
She studies my face. “You seem… distant.”
I shrug. “Just tired.”
She nods, accepting it too easily, and that makes the guilt worse.
Because I am distant.
I feel like I’m watching us from the outside, like this is something happening to me instead of something I’m choosing. Every time she laughs, every time she talks about assignments or deadlines or competitions, I feel myself slipping a step behind her.
She’s moving forward again.
I’m standing still.
At night, when she texts me, I take longer to respond. Not on purpose. I just… forget. Or I stare at the screen too long, unsure what to say.
Miss you.
Thinking about you.
The words feel thin in my hands.
When we meet up again, she curls into me like she used to, resting her head against my shoulder. The familiarity is comforting and terrifying at the same time.
“You feel far away,” she murmurs.
I close my eyes. “I’m right here.”
But even as I say it, I know that’s not entirely true.
There’s something sitting in my chest like a stone.
Guilt.
It doesn’t have a clear shape yet. It’s just there—heavy, insistent, impossible to ignore. It shows up when Zoey smiles at me like she trusts me again. When she talks about rebuilding. When she says things like we instead of I.
I don’t know how to tell her that part of me feels like a fraud.
That part of me feels like I don’t deserve another chance.
We go for coffee one afternoon, sitting across from each other in a quiet café near campus. She’s talking about a paper she’s behind on, frustration lining her voice.
“I just feel like everything is slipping,” she says. “Like I can’t afford to mess up right now.”
I nod, stirring my drink even though it’s already cold.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her. “You always do.”
She smiles faintly. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it.”
She watches me for a moment. “Do you?”
The question isn’t accusatory. It’s searching.
“Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly.
She nods, but something in her expression tightens.
I hate that I’m doing this to her.
That I’m letting her believe in something I’m not sure I can give her.
Later, when she leans across the table and takes my hand, the warmth of her skin makes my chest ache.
“I don’t want to lose this,” she says softly.
I squeeze her fingers. “Neither do I.”
Another half-truth.
Because the truth—the real one, the ugly one—is that I’m terrified of holding onto her while knowing I might break her again.
That night, guilt crawls up my spine when my phone buzzes with a notification I don’t open right away. I know who it’s from without looking.
I flip the phone facedown.
I don’t want to think about it.
I don’t want to think about anything except the fact that Zoey is back in my life, trusting me again, leaning on me again.
And I don’t know if I’m capable of being what she needs now.
When she kisses me for the first time since we agreed to try again, it’s soft and careful, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she presses too hard.
I kiss her back.
But something in me stays guarded.
Afterward, she rests her forehead against mine. “This feels… fragile.”
“Yeah,” I admit.
“But maybe that’s okay,” she adds. “Maybe we just need to be careful.”
I nod, even though part of me knows fragility isn’t the problem.
Dishonesty is.
I don’t tell her about the numbness.
I don’t tell her about the guilt.
I don’t tell her that every time she looks at me like she’s choosing me again, my chest tightens with the knowledge that I don’t fully trust myself anymore.
I don’t tell her that love doesn’t always feel like warmth—sometimes it feels like a debt you’re scared you’ll never repay.
Instead, I hold her when she needs it.
I show up when I can.
And I let the silence grow around the things I’m too afraid to name.
Because even now—especially now—I’m terrified that if I say everything out loud, I’ll lose her for good.
And I don’t think I could survive that.