Fox in the Hallway

The vitamin gummies sat on Jade's nightstand like colorful accusations. "You should try them," she said, not looking up from her phone. "They're supposed to help with stress."

I didn't tell her that my stress had a name: watching my best friend gradually dissolve into someone I didn't recognize. Since she'd started hanging with the popular crowd, Jade had become obsessed with perfection—grades, skin, hair, now these stupid supplements.

"Whatever," I said, flopping onto her bed. "Can we please just watch the movie?"

My phone buzzed. Mom: Your goldfish died again.

I rolled my eyes. We were on goldfish number four this year. My little brother won the first one at the carnival, and we'd been replacing them like defective light bulbs ever since. They never lasted long in that tiny bowl, swimming in frantic circles until—poof—belly up.

Lately, I felt like one of them.

"You're coming to Lily's party, right?" Jade asked suddenly. "It's gonna be lit."

"I don't know." Parties weren't my scene. All that pretending to have fun, standing around while people took photos for Instagram.

"You have to come. Everyone's gonna be there."

Everyone except the real Jade, apparently.

I left early, walking home alone through the suburban dark. That's when I saw it—a fox, crouched in someone's driveway. It watched me with eyes like polished amber, wild and unbothered.

For a moment, we stared at each other. Then it turned and vanished between the houses, quick and silent and utterly itself.

I stopped walking.

Goldfish circle until they die. Foxes go where they want.

I pulled out my phone and texted Jade: Not coming tonight. I'm done pretending.

Then I called my mom. "Let's just get a bigger tank," I said. "Or no fish at all."

The fox was somewhere out there in the dark, running free. I decided I wanted to be running alongside it.