Flash Point

The goldfish had survived two weeks in that plastic bag from the carnival, which was two weeks longer than my dignity survived freshman year. His name was Chad, because my little brother thought naming him after our high school's quarterback was peak comedy. Chad swam in endless circles around his bowl while I sprawled across my bed, doom-scrolling through my iPhone, watching everyone else's lives look infinitely more exciting than mine.

"You need spinach," Mom announced at dinner, dumping a gelatinous green mound onto my plate. "It'll help with track season."

Track season. Right. Because somehow I'd let Jessica talk me into joining the team, and now I was actually committed to running in circles around a track while faster humans lapped me like Chad did his plastic castle. The first practice was tomorrow, and my anxiety was doing literal backflips.

A storm rolled in around midnight. I couldn't sleep, so I did what any rational person would do: I went running. At 2 AM. In the rain. Because sometimes you just need to move until your legs burn and your brain stops overthinking everything.

Lightning cracked the sky open — white-purple veins illuminating the empty streets. I stopped under the awning of the closed bodega, breathing hard, rain plastering my hair to my forehead. That's when I saw my phone screen light up with a text from Jessica: "you up?"

We met at the park. She was soaked too, holding a plastic bag. "I couldn't sleep either," she said. "Also, Chad looks depressed in that bowl."

We released Chad into the pond during the next lightning flash. He hesitated, then darted into the dark water like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment.

"First track practice tomorrow," Jessica said. "We're gonna be terrible."

"Probably," I laughed.

"But at least we'll be terrible together."

Sometimes growth feels like lightning — sudden, blinding, terrifying. And sometimes it's just choosing to run through the rain instead of hiding from it.