Fox Running Friend

The cross-country team called me Fox because of my hair—that bright orange mess I couldn't control. But honestly? I earned the nickname in other ways too. Like how I'd talk my way out of trouble, or how I knew everyone's secrets without ever spilling my own.

But running? That was the one thing I couldn't talk my way out of. Morning practices, 6 AM, my lungs burning like I'd swallowed fire. Coach Miller screaming at us to push harder, faster, stronger.

"You're dragging, Fox," Maya called from ahead of me, her perfect ponytail swinging like she was in a sports drink commercial. Maya, who used to be my best friend before she became captain of everything and I became... well, still figuring it out.

"I'm pacing myself," I shot back, but we both knew I was lying.

That afternoon, I found her crying behind the bleachers. Maya. The girl who had it together.

"Fox," she sniffed, looking up with those raccoon eyes from running mascara. "I'm failing algebra. My parents are gonna kill me."

I almost laughed. All this time I'd thought she'd outgrown me, but she was just running from her own stuff too. We were all running—from expectations, from pressure, from the parts of ourselves we couldn't quite accept.

"I can help you," I said. "I'm actually kinda good at algebra."

She looked at me like I'd offered her a million dollars.

"Really?"

"Yeah. But you have to admit I'm faster than you on the hills."

She laughed through her tears. "You're on, Fox."

The next morning, I woke up before my alarm. Something about having a real friend again made the 6 AM practice feel different. My lungs still burned, but maybe that's just what happens when you're finally running toward something instead of away from it.