I perfect the art of avoidance.
It starts small—choosing different hallways, sitting in the far corners of lecture halls, arriving late and leaving early so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone I used to know. Then it grows into something heavier. Something deliberate.
I stop eating breakfast entirely. Lunch becomes optional. Dinner becomes an inconvenience I don’t feel like dealing with. My stomach growls sometimes, sharp and insistent, but I learn how to breathe through it. Hunger feels easier than everything else.
At least hunger is quiet.
My grades slip further, no matter how many times I promise myself I’ll catch up. I open my laptop, stare at the screen, reread the same paragraph until the words blur into meaninglessness. Deadlines pass like trains I don’t even try to run for anymore.
I stop caring about being the best.
I start caring about surviving the day without breaking.
I don’t sit with anyone anymore. The cafeteria feels like a stage, and I don’t want to perform grief or strength or indifference for an audience. I grab coffee instead—black, bitter, filling enough to trick my body into silence.
I see people everywhere.
Chase, laughing too loudly with Scott near the vending machines. Ellen, moving through campus like a ghost, eyes hollow, shoulders tense. Miles and Amber, always surrounded, always visible.
I don’t look at them.
I don’t want to see their faces and remember who I used to be to them.
After my last class, I head toward the chess club room out of habit more than desire. It’s one of the few places that still feels structured. Predictable. Quiet.
The room smells faintly of old books and cheap coffee. A few people are already seated, boards set up, pieces arranged with careful precision.
“Hey, Zoey,” someone murmurs.
I nod but don’t stop.
I sit across from a guy I vaguely recognize—Evan, maybe? He smiles politely.
“You want white or black?” he asks.
“Black,” I say.
We start playing.
I lose.
Not dramatically. Not catastrophically.
Just… slowly. Inevitably.
I make mistakes I know better than to make. My concentration slips. My mind wanders.
“Check,” Evan says gently.
I stare at the board, realizing too late what I’ve done.
“Checkmate,” he adds a moment later, apologetic.
“It’s fine,” I mutter.
It’s not.
I play again. And again.
I lose every single match.
By the fourth loss, my hands are shaking slightly as I reset the pieces.
“Do you want to take a break?” someone asks.
“No,” I reply too quickly. “I’m good.”
I’m not.
I feel stupid. Slow. Heavy.
Chess used to be something I could disappear into—logic and strategy and quiet thinking. Now it just feels like another reminder that I’m failing at things I used to be good at.
I sit back in my chair, watching the others play. Their conversations blur together—casual, relaxed, normal.
I feel like an intruder.
That’s when I feel it.
Someone standing beside me.
I stiffen.
“Zoey?”
I don’t look up.
“I just wanted to check if you’re okay.”
That voice.
I glance up despite myself.
Amber.
She’s standing there with her arms crossed loosely, not smirking, not surrounded by friends, not performing. Just… there.
My suspicion flares immediately.
“What do you want?” I ask flatly.
Her brows knit together. “Wow. Straight to the hostility.”
“I’m not in the mood,” I say. “If you’re here to make a joke, pick someone else.”
She exhales slowly. “I’m not.”
I scoff. “Sure.”
“I mean it,” she says. “I saw you lose three games in a row. You look… not great.”
Something about the way she says it—without cruelty, without amusement—throws me off.
“I didn’t ask for your commentary,” I reply.
She pulls out a chair and sits down anyway.
“Good,” she says. “Because I didn’t come to comment.”
I tense. “Then why are you here?”
She hesitates.
That alone is unsettling.
“Because,” she says carefully, “you’ve been disappearing. And I know what that looks like.”
I laugh bitterly. “No, you don’t.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You think popularity means immunity?”
I stand abruptly. “I don’t want this conversation.”
She doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t grab my arm or raise her voice.
She just says, quietly, “You don’t look like someone who’s fine.”
I freeze.
People glance our way. I hate that. I hate feeling seen.
“You don’t get to pretend you care now,” I snap. “After everything.”
“I’m not pretending,” she says. “And I know I don’t deserve your trust.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t.”
She nods. “Fair.”
That disarms me more than any insult would have.
“I’m not asking you to like me,” Amber continues. “I’m asking if you’re okay.”
I stare at her, my chest tight.
“Why?” I ask. “Why now?”
She looks away briefly, then back at me.
“Because,” she says, “watching you lose like this doesn’t feel good.”
I let out a short laugh. “You used to enjoy that.”
“Yeah,” she admits. “I did.”
The honesty hits harder than denial.
“And?” I challenge.
“And it turns out,” she says, quieter now, “it wasn’t actually about you.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“I’m tired,” I say finally. “If this is some kind of social experiment, I’m not interested.”
“It’s not,” she replies. “I just wanted to check in. That’s it.”
“Then you’ve checked,” I say. “Congratulations.”
She stands slowly, studying my face.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” she says. “But you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
Something about that cracks the careful numbness I’ve built around myself.
“I’ve been alone for months,” I say. “I survived.”
She shakes her head. “Surviving isn’t the same as living.”
I swallow hard.
“See you around, Zoey,” Amber says softly.
She turns and walks away.
I sit there frozen, heart pounding, staring at the empty chair she left behind.
Nothing about that interaction makes sense.
Amber doesn’t do quiet concern. She doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t sit with people who are losing.
And yet.
I look down at the chessboard in front of me. The pieces are scattered, the game unfinished.
I don’t reset it.
I just sit there, staring, my mind racing.
Why now?
What does she want?
And why does the fact that she didn’t mock me feel more unsettling than if she had?
I gather my things slowly, my movements stiff, mechanical.
As I leave the room, I glance back once.
Amber is standing near the doorway, talking to someone else now, her posture relaxed, her expression unreadable.
She doesn’t look at me.
I don’t know why that bothers me.
As I walk down the hallway, my thoughts churn.
This isn’t how things are supposed to go.
Enemies don’t check in.
People like Amber don’t apologize.
And I don’t trust sudden kindness—not anymore.
But for the first time in weeks, something new coils in my chest.
Not hope.
Suspicion.
And maybe—just maybe—the smallest flicker of curiosity.
I step outside into the cool air, pulling my coat tighter around myself.
Whatever Amber’s doing, I don’t know if it’s real.
But I do know one thing:
Something has shifted.
And I have no idea whether it’s going to save me—or hurt me next.