Electric Storm at Pine Ridge

Summer after sophomore year, everything changed. Maybe it was the lightning storm that split open the sky above Pine Ridge, or maybe it was just that we were finally seeing each other.

Maya, who'd been my best friend since kindergarten, started hanging with the foxes — those Instagram-perfect girls who orchestrated cafeteria seating like they were playing 4D chess. I didn't recognize her anymore. The old Maya would've never ghosted my texts to go to Tyler's party.

The night the storm hit, seven of us ended up stuck in Mr. Henderson's old shed while waiting out the rain. Jordan, who everyone called Bear because he was literally the size of a defensive lineman (and had accidentally broken a door off its hinges freshman year), was crammed in the corner with his acoustic guitar.

Lightning flashed so bright it turned everything white for a second. In that moment, I saw it — Maya's hand brush Tyler's arm. Something in my chest cracked wide open.

"You okay?" Jordan's voice rumbled, low and steady.

I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat. But he kept playing, something soft and familiar, and before I knew it, I was crying. Not pretty crying. Ugly crying.

The weirdest part? Jordan didn't make it weird. He kept playing, and somehow everyone else started singing along. Even Maya and Tyler.

The storm raged for twenty minutes. We sat there, wet and shivering, while Bear played covers of songs we all pretended were too basic but secretly loved.

By the time the rain stopped, something had shifted. Maya met my eyes across the shed and gave me this tiny, almost apologetic smile. Like maybe she'd forgotten what it felt like to just be with people who knew her before she was trying to be someone else.

Lightning doesn't strike twice, they say. But sometimes? Sometimes one flash is all it takes to see what's been there all along.