Chasing the Wrong Feed

The golden retriever puppy—Sir Barksalot—had 2.3 million followers. I had 472.

"Bro, did you see the comments?" Maya nudged me, her phone practically glued to her hand. "People are OBSESSED with his zoomies reel."

Yeah. The reel I filmed. The reel I edited. The reel that took three hours and required me to make ridiculous noises while throwing a tennis ball in ninety-degree heat.

"It's giving viral energy," I said, because that's what Maya wanted to hear. That's what a good friend would say.

But inside? Something felt off. I'd been running Maya's dog's social media since she got him last summer, back when we promised we'd split the brand deals 50/50. But somewhere between the PetSmart sponsorship and the TikTok趋势, it became HER dog's empire. I was just the behind-the-scenes content farm.

The thing was, nobody knew I was even part of it. Maya posted everything from HER account. Her followers thought she was the genius creative director. My followers thought I was just... random.

"We should film a morning routine tomorrow," she said, already planning next week's content calendar. "Wake up with Sir Barksalot. Get that aesthetic breakfast lighting."

I grabbed my backpack. "Actually, can't. I have track practice."

Maya's face did that thing where she tried to look supportive but was visibly annoyed. "Oh, right. Your running thing."

Her tone hit different. That thing—that dismissive little twist of her voice—made something snap. Since when was what I loved just "my running thing" while her digital fame was THE ambition?

Coach had been saying my splits were improving. That I might actually qualify for regionals if I kept pushing. But I'd been skipping practice to film a literal dog eating peanut butter from a spoon.

What was I even doing? Chasing clout through someone else's life while my own potential was collecting dust?

The next morning, instead of meeting Maya at 6 AM to film sunrise puppy content, I showed up at the track. Coach's jaw dropped.

"You're actually here?"

"Yeah," I said, tying my shoes tight. "Put me in the 400."

That afternoon, Maya sent seventeen texts. All caps. Something about a trending sound we HAD to catch before it died.

I didn't respond. I was busy running actual miles, not metaphorical ones. And yeah, Sir Barksalot's feed kept posting without me. But you know what?

So did I.

Some friends you outgrow. Some races you finally decide to run for yourself.