Cracked Screen, Orange Sky

Maya's fingers traced the spiderweb crack across her iPhone screen—her battle scar from freshman year, when she'd finally stood up to Tyler in the cafeteria. Now, senior year, nobody messed with her. They also didn't really *see* her.

That was fine. Being invisible at the bottom of the school's social pyramid meant nobody expected anything. Maya could exist in the margins, eat her lunch on the bench by the art wing, and disappear into her sketchbook until the final bell.

"Hey."

Maya looked up. Riley, track star and actual human sunshine, stood there holding out something orange. An orange. A literal piece of fruit, like this was normal human behavior.

"You looked like you needed this," Riley said, dropping it on the bench beside her. "You okay? You've been sitting here every day this week."

The unexpected kindness hit harder than the time she'd face-planted during mandatory gym class. "I'm... working through something."

Riley sat down, not waiting for an invitation. "Want to talk about it? Or I could just sit here and pretend this orange is fascinating."

Maya found herself smiling. Riley's energy was ridiculous in the best way. "College applications," she admitted. "Everyone's got these perfect plans. I don't even know what I want."

"Same," Riley said, peeling her orange. "My parents think I should run D1 track. But honestly? I'm kinda over it. I started running because I loved how it felt to move, not for scholarships. Now it's just... pressure."

They sat there while Riley ate her orange section by section, and something shifted in Maya's chest. This girl at the top of every hierarchy—sports, popularity, probably academics too—was just as lost as she was.

"You know what my therapist says?" Riley continued. "She says we're all just running from something or toward something, and figuring out which is which takes time. And that's okay."

The bell rang.

"Well," Riley stood up, tossing the orange peel toward the trash. "Nice talking to you, Maya. See you tomorrow?"

Maya watched her walk away, her iPhone vibrating with another college deadline reminder. She didn't unlock it. Instead, she picked up her sketchbook and started drawing—the orange peel on the bench, the way the afternoon light hit it, the first real connection she'd made all year.

The pyramid didn't matter anymore. She was running toward something now. She just had to figure out what that was.