Chasing Orange Skies

The bathroom mirror showed a stranger. My hair, previously a boring mouse-brown that screamed "I'm fine with blending in," now blazed neon pink. Mom had definitely noticed. Her side-eye at breakfast had been devastatingly effective.

"Your hair's... bold," she'd said, the way adults do when they want to say "what were you thinking" without actually saying it.

Now I was staring at my iPhone, refreshing Instagram like my life depended on it. Three new likes. No comments. Was everyone ignoring it on purpose? Was I being canceled?

I needed air.

"Buster! Come on, boy!" My golden retriever thundered down the stairs, nails clicking on hardwood like he'd been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. That was the thing about dogs—they didn't care if your hair looked like a highlighter exploded. They just wanted you to throw the tennis ball.

We started running. Our usual route—past the Johnsons' house (Mrs. Johnson was definitely watching Judge Judy again, TV blasting through the window), through the park where the middle schoolers smoked behind the dumpster, down to the creek that allegedly had leeches but I'd never actually seen one.

Running was the only thing that shut up my brain. The burn in my lungs, the rhythm of my sneakers on pavement—it was like meditation for people who couldn't sit still. Buster bounded ahead, doing that happy-dog trot that said everything in the world was perfect because there were squirrels to potentially chase.

We reached the clearing by the water just as the sky decided to go full dramatic mode. Orange everywhere—like someone had spilled a entire tube of paint across the horizon, all those impossible shades that exist between sunset and actual night. Gold bleeding into coral into purple.

I sat on the grass, chest heaving, while Buster investigated something that smelled terrible.

My iPhone buzzed. A text from Maya: "ur hair looks so good?? im jealous"

I typed back: "thx!! feels weird but also not?"

"that's literally the point dummy. it's supposed to feel not safe. that's how u know ur doing it right"

I looked at my reflection in the creek water—pink hair messy from running, cheeks flushed, actual smile happening. Maybe the point wasn't to look perfect. Maybe the point was to look like myself, whoever that was turning out to be.

"Come on, Buster," I said. "Let's race home."

The orange sky painted everything pink and gold and possible. For the first time, I didn't wonder what people would think. I just started running.