Citrus & Starting Lines

The orange peels stuck to Maya's sweaty palms like a second skin. Cross country practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but she was still running laps around the empty track, her sneakers slapping against the rubber in a rhythm that matched her overthinking brain.

"You gonna ignore me forever or what?"

Jordan's voice cut through the twilight, making Maya stumble. She hadn't been her friend since the Incident™ — capital I, capital T — when Jordan had accidentally posted Maya's cringey eighth grade poetry draft to the school's Instagram story. The entire student body had seen it. The entire student body had screenshotted it.

"Not ignoring you," Maya lied, pulling at her necklace. "Just... processing."

"Processing for three weeks?" Jordan stepped onto the track, clutching something behind her back. "I brought you something."

"A time machine?" Maya deadpanned. "Because that's what I need to go back and un-see my own embarrassing existence."

"Better." Jordan revealed a perfect, bright orange mandarin. "Your favorite. From my grandma's tree."

Maya's stomach did that thing where it forgets how to digestion. "Okay?"

"Okay? Seriously?" Jordan sighed, dramatic and seventeen about it. "I drove forty minutes to my grandma's house yesterday. Specifically to get you oranges. Specifically because you said last year — before everything went sideways — that these were the only ones that didn't make you feel gross."

The oranges. The conversation. Jordan had remembered.

"I thought you were still mad at me," Jordan continued, her voice quieter. "For the... you know."

"The Great Poetry Exposure of 2024?" Maya cracked half a smile. "Bro, that's ancient history. I was mostly embarrassed that I wrote 'eternal darkness' unironically."

Jordan's shoulders dropped like she'd been holding her breath. "So we're...?"

"We're good." Maya accepted the orange, its weight familiar and grounding. "But if you ever post my writing again, I'm ending you."

"Deal." Jordan grinned. "Wanna walk to Taco Bell? I'm starving."

"Always." Maya peeled the orange as they headed toward the parking lot, citrus scent cutting through the humidity. Some friends leave peels everywhere. Some remember your fruit preferences after three weeks of silence. Some just show up, orange in hand, ready to start running toward something new together.