Chasing Foxfire

The summer before junior year, I started running. Not because I liked it—definitely not—but because my mom bought this giant bottle of vitamin D supplements and told me I needed to 'get some actual sunlight' instead of rotting in my room all summer.

So there I was, dragging myself through the park at dawn every morning, gasping for air like I was dying, which honestly felt possible.

Then I saw the fox.

Red-orange fur glowing like something out of a storybook, standing in the middle of the trail, just watching me with these knowing amber eyes. For a second, time went all weird and stretchy. The fox didn't run. Just tilted its head like it was judging my terrible form.

'What?' I wheezed. 'Never seen someone dying before?'

It blinked at me, then disappeared into the brush like magic.

The next morning, I brought my phone. Snapped a photo of the fox in the same spot, posted it with some cheesy caption about 'chasing dreams' because I was that desperate for content. But mostly I just kept showing up.

My best friend texts me: 'bro why are you awake at 6am this is unnatural behavior'

'theres a fox' I text back. 'we're basically friends now'

'you need help'

By July, running didn't feel like dying anymore. Which was low-key concerning. I found myself pushing harder, going farther, weirdly motivated by the idea that the fox might be watching. Pathetic? Maybe. But my mile time dropped from twelve-something to under nine.

The fox appeared randomly—sometimes by the old creek where the water rushed over smooth gray stones, sometimes near the playground equipment. We had this whole thing. I'd nod, it'd stare, I'd feel both ridiculous and seen.

Two weeks before school started, I brought my dog Leo. The fox appeared on the trail ahead, and Leo went absolutely feral, barking and lunging, tangling me in the leash. I faceplanted directly into a mud puddle.

The fox didn't run. It sat there watching me wipe mud from my face, and I swear—it laughed.

'Yeah yeah, hilarious,' I muttered, dripping and humiliated. 'You enjoy the show.'

Something about being covered in mud, laughed at by a literal fox, fully broke something loose. I started laughing too, couldn't stop, lying there in my disgrace while the sun rose pink and gold through the trees.

That September, I joined cross country. My mom stopped buying the vitamins—I didn't need them anymore. Sometimes during meets, when I'm pushing through that awful moment where everything burns and I want to quit, I think about amber eyes and a rust-red tail, about how the weirdest things change you when you're not looking.

I still see the fox sometimes. It never gets old.