Bull's Eye View

The cross-country team was my excuse for everything. Need to bail early from Jordan's party? Sorry, got running practice. Want to avoid that awkward conversation with Riley? Gotta hit the trails, bro. It was the perfect shield—until it wasn't.

I was coming back from a solo evening run, sweat dripping down my back, when I saw them through the cracked basement window of Jordan's house. Riley. My best friend since third grade. The person I'd been lowkey spying on Instagram for months, analyzing every story, every caption, every vague relationship status update.

But there they were, hands intertwined with someone else. Someone who wasn't me. Someone who was definitely better at being normal than I'd ever been.

I froze. Then I booked it. Like, actual running—springing down the street, gym shoes slamming against pavement, lungs screaming. I didn't stop until I reached the park bench where I'd first told Riley I liked them.

My phone buzzed. Jordan: 'Bro, I saw you running down my street like you saw a ghost. Everything good?'

I typed back: 'All good, just training. Why?'

'Bro, don't give me that bull.' Jordan's response hit my screen. 'You're literally terrible at lying. What happened?'

I sat there, chest still heaving, realizing that no amount of running—literal or metaphorical—could change what I'd seen. The spy game I'd been playing with my own heart had finally caught up to me.

Some races aren't meant to be won. Sometimes you just have to stop running and face whatever's waiting at the finish line.