Everything feels heavier lately, like gravity doubled overnight and no one bothered to warn me.
I sit in the lecture hall, laptop open, notes half-written, staring at a slide I’ve already seen three times. The professor is talking—something about methodology, something important—but the words slide past me without sticking.
I blink hard and type a sentence.
Then delete it.
Then type it again.
My phone buzzes softly against the desk. My heart jumps before I even check it.
Not Chase.
Just a calendar reminder.
I swallow, my throat dry, and force my eyes back to the screen.
Focus, I tell myself. Just get through the hour.
When class ends, I pack up slowly, letting the room empty around me. My head feels foggy, stuffed with cotton. I used to thrive on this—on being busy, on juggling tasks, on feeling capable.
Now it feels like I’m constantly a step behind myself.
Outside, the quad is loud with voices and movement. I drift through it like a ghost, backpack heavy on my shoulders, my thoughts louder than the world around me.
At the café, I stand in line behind two girls from my program.
“…I’m just saying, it’s messy,” one of them says.
“Yeah, but isn’t it always with him?” the other replies.
I stiffen.
“With who?” the first girl asks.
“Chase,” she says. “And that quiet girl. Ellen, I think.”
My stomach drops.
I lean forward slightly, pretending to check my phone, every muscle in my body straining to hear without being obvious.
“I heard they’re together now,” the first girl continues. “Or at least… something.”
The other snorts. “Poor Zoey.”
The name hits like a slap.
“I don’t get it,” the first girl says. “Didn’t Zoey just get back with him?”
“Apparently,” the second replies. “But you know how that goes.”
They step forward in line, their voices fading.
I stand frozen, heart pounding so hard it makes me dizzy.
They don’t know anything, I tell myself immediately. People love to talk. They exaggerate.
By the time it’s my turn to order, my hands are shaking.
“Large coffee,” I say too quickly. “Black.”
I carry it to a corner table and sit down, wrapping my hands around the cup even though it’s too hot. The heat grounds me slightly.
Ellen wouldn’t, I think. She’s not like that.
And Chase—
Chase wouldn’t do that to me.
Not now.
Not after everything.
I pull out my laptop, trying to work, but the words blur. My mind keeps replaying the conversation, the casual cruelty of poor Zoey, the way Ellen has been avoiding my eyes, the way Chase has felt… distant.
I close the laptop with a quiet snap.
Across the café, Ellen sits at a table near the window.
She’s alone.
I notice because I always notice now.
She’s hunched over her notebook, hair tucked behind her ears, pen moving steadily. She looks calm. Focused.
Normal.
My chest tightens.
I stand before I can talk myself out of it and walk toward her.
“Hey,” I say softly.
She looks up, startled. “Oh. Hi.”
“Mind if I sit?” I ask.
She hesitates just a fraction of a second too long. “Sure.”
I take the seat across from her, my coffee untouched.
“I feel like we haven’t talked,” I say carefully.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“And I don’t like that,” I add.
She presses her lips together. “Things have just been… weird.”
“Weird how?” I ask.
She shrugs, eyes flicking to the side. “You know. Life.”
I exhale slowly. “Ellen, if I did something to hurt you—”
“You didn’t,” she says quickly.
Too quickly.
“Then why does it feel like you’re avoiding me?” I ask.
Her fingers tighten around her pen. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“That’s not true,” I reply quietly. “You won’t look at me.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I’m tired, Zoey,” she says finally.
“Of me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She flinches. “No. Of… everything.”
My chest aches. “You can talk to me.”
She looks up then, eyes sharp and guarded. “Can I?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Of course.”
She studies my face like she’s searching for something. Then she looks down again.
“I don’t think now’s the right time,” she says.
“When will it be?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she admits.
The answer leaves me feeling strangely empty.
“Okay,” I say, standing slowly. “If you change your mind.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything else.
I walk away feeling foolish for trying.
The rest of the day drags.
In my afternoon seminar, I miss a question directed at me entirely.
“Zoey?”
I blink, startled. “Sorry—what?”
A few people glance at me. The professor frowns slightly.
“I asked for your thoughts on the reading,” she says.
“Oh,” I reply, heat rushing to my face. “Um.”
My mind scrambles. I answer something vague, hoping it’s enough.
After class, Clara catches up to me.
“You okay?” she asks. “You’ve been off lately.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She gives me a look. “You keep saying that.”
I force a smile. “I just have a lot on my plate.”
“Chase?” she asks.
I stiffen. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you look like you’re carrying something heavy,” she says gently.
I swallow. “We’re… figuring things out.”
She hesitates. “I heard some stuff.”
My heart sinks. “About what?”
She lowers her voice. “About him. And Ellen.”
I laugh sharply. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “It’s gossip.”
She studies me. “Okay. If you say so.”
That night, I sit on my bed scrolling through my phone, fingers hovering over Chase’s name.
I want to text him.
I don’t want to sound paranoid.
Did you hang out with Ellen today?
People are saying things.
Are we okay?
All of it sounds accusing. Weak.
So I type something else.
Me: Hey. Miss you today.
The typing bubble appears.
Then disappears.
Then reappears.
Finally:
Chase: Yeah. Busy day.
That’s it.
I stare at the screen, disappointment blooming in my chest.
Me: Want to come over later?
A long pause.
Chase: Not tonight. Sorry.
I toss my phone onto the bed and lie back, staring at the ceiling.
The whispers echo in my head.
Poor Zoey.
I tell myself it’s nothing.
That I’m exhausted. That stress is making me sensitive. That Ellen’s distance is just discomfort. That Chase’s distraction is temporary.
But deep down, beneath all the rationalizations, something tightens with quiet certainty.
Something is wrong.
And I’m the only one pretending not to see it.
I turn onto my side, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders like armor.
Tomorrow, I tell myself.
I’ll deal with it tomorrow.