Bear Mode

Marcus stared at the single **goldfish** swimming in lazy circles on his dad's countertop. Three days into his mandatory "summer visitation" — air quotes very much intended — and this fish had become his only confidant. Its name was Bear, which his dad thought was peak comedy.

"You heading out?" his dad called from the couch. The TV blared **cable** news at max volume because apparently WiFi was a luxury in this new apartment.

"Yeah," Marcus said, grabbing his backpack. His hands were shaking and he hated it.

He was supposed to meet Skylar and the skate crew at the park. But what if he was still too much of a poser? What if they found out he'd been **running** from his hollowed-out chest since the split? What if his kickflip was mid?

**Bear** surfaced, opened his tiny mouth, and disappeared back into the murky water.

"Just go,**bear mode***, Marcus muttered to himself, his dad's terrible joke somehow working.

He pushed through the door into the summer heat, skateboard tucked under his arm like a shield. The neighborhood hummed with lawnmowers and distant laughter. Everyone was living their best summer while his was unfolding in forced visitation schedules and a dad who tried way too hard.

But then he saw Skylar at the park, golden hair catching light, waving like she'd been waiting just for him. And when she handed him her board and said "show me what you got" with that easy confidence he'd been faking for weeks, Marcus finally breathed.

"I'm working on it," he said, and it wasn't a lie. Not exactly.

Some things take practice. Kickflips, belonging, being okay with not being okay yet. The goldfish would still be swimming circles when he got back, and maybe that wasn't the worst thing. Maybe circles were just how you figured out where you were going.