Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 36

I wake up before my alarm, heart already racing like it knows something important is coming and doesn’t trust me not to mess it up. Today is presentation day. The word echoes in my head as I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying my slides, my opening line, the way I practiced standing without swaying, without apologizing with my body.

I roll onto my side and reach for my phone.

No messages from Chase.

I unlock the screen anyway, scroll back through our chat, looking for something that proves he remembers. Last night, I told him. I know I did.

Tomorrow’s my presentation. Eleven a.m. Big one.

He reacted with a thumbs-up emoji.

At the time, I told myself that was enough.

Now, lying in bed with my chest tight, it doesn’t feel like enough at all.

I get dressed carefully, choosing clothes that make me feel sharp, not small.

I exhale and leave it alone.

At breakfast, my mother barely looks up from her phone.

“Big day,” she says absently.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Don’t embarrass yourself,” she adds, like it’s a blessing.

Campus feels louder than usual, every sound dialed up too high. I clutch my laptop like a shield as I walk into the lecture hall. Ellen is already there, sitting near the aisle.

“You’ve got this,” she says quietly as I pass.

“Thanks.”

I scan the room once, quickly.

Chase isn’t here yet.

He’ll come, I tell myself. He’s probably just running late.

Professor Wilson enters, calm as always, setting his things down with unhurried precision.

“Good morning,” he says. “Today, we listen.”

The words settle something in me.

Presentations begin. One by one, students stand, speak, sit back down. I take notes out of habit, but my eyes keep drifting to the door. Each time it opens, my pulse spikes.

Still no Chase.

By the time my name is called, I stop looking.

“Zoey,” Professor Wilson says.

I stand. My hands tremble for exactly one second. Then I step forward.

I don’t see the room anymore once I start speaking. I see my argument. My structure. My work. The months I spent building this thing piece by piece, rewriting sentences until they finally said what I meant.

I speak clearly. I don’t rush. When someone asks a question, I answer it without deflecting. Without apologizing.

When I finish, the room is quiet for a beat.

Then someone claps. Then another.

I exhale, legs suddenly weak as I return to my seat.

As I walk out of the building, my phone buzzes.

Chase: Hey. What’s up?

My chest tightens.

Where were you? I type, then delete it.

Instead: My presentation just ended.

A minute passes.

Chase: Oh. Today was that?

I stop walking.

Yes, I reply. I told you.

Another pause.

Chase: I didn’t think it mattered that much.

Something in me goes very still.

Can we talk? I type.

Sure, he answers. I’m near the gym.

I find him sitting on the low wall by the entrance, hood up, headphones around his neck. He looks relaxed. Too relaxed.

“You forgot,” I say, not bothering with a greeting.

He shrugs. “I didn’t forget-forget. I just didn’t realize it was… that serious.”

“That serious,” I repeat.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “It’s just school stuff.”

“It’s my last year.”

“And?” he asks. “You always do well.”

“That’s not the point.”

He sighs. “Zoey, I didn’t think it mattered that much.”

The sentence lands heavier the second time.

“It mattered to me,” I say quietly.

He looks at me like that’s inconvenient information. “You didn’t need me there.”

“I wanted you there.”

“That’s different,” he replies. “You can’t expect me to show up for everything.”

“I’m not asking for everything,” I say, my voice shaking now. “I’m asking for one thing. One day.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he snaps.

“No,” I say. “You’re minimizing it because it doesn’t matter to you.”

“Because it doesn’t,” he fires back. “Grades, presentations—none of that changes anything real.”

I stare at him. “It changes my future.”

He scoffs. “You already have one.”

“And you?” I ask before I can stop myself. “What about yours?”

His eyes darken. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m moving forward,” I say. “And you’re acting like that’s a threat.”

“That’s not fair,” he says sharply.

“What’s not fair is that I keep shrinking things that matter to me so you don’t feel left behind.”

Silence drops between us, thick and sharp.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” he says.

“No,” I agree. “You just punish me when I don’t.”

His jaw tightens. “You think you’re better than me now?”

“I think I’m tired,” I say. “Tired of pretending my achievements are embarrassing.”

He stands abruptly. “So now I’m the villain.”

“No,” I say, standing too. “You’re just… not here.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I looked for you,” I continue, words spilling now. “I kept checking the door. I kept telling myself you’d show up. And you didn’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t be everything for you.”

“I’m not asking you to be,” I say. “I’m asking you to care.”

He laughs, bitter. “You want a cheerleader. That’s not me.”

“Then what are you?” I ask.

The question hangs there, unanswered.

“I need air,” I say suddenly.

“Zoey—”

I turn away before he can finish. I walk, then almost run, the campus blurring around me. My chest burns, my eyes sting, but I don’t stop until I’m back in my room.

I sit on the edge of my bed, shaking.

The realization hits slowly, painfully clear.

I didn’t downplay my presentation for him.

I downplayed myself.

And for the first time, instead of feeling guilty about that thought, I feel angry.

Angry enough to wonder how many more of my achievements I’m willing to make smaller just to keep the peace.

Angry enough to realize that peace built on silence isn’t peace at all.